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Home, Not Home

Updated: Jan 2



It's always strange, being home.


Home where I was a child,

where I became a not-child,

where I am not a child anymore.




I sat on this tree as child.

This oblique oak tree.


It was perfect for climbing.

And for kissing.




I sat by this pond as a not-child.

This rock-skipped sky-mirror.


It was perfect for picnics.

And for cake fights.


Today, as a not-child, I sat inside my memories:

My stories and my histories.


This childhood home-not-home

Is still home,

and yet not.


And, somehow, I find that comforting.


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