September 28, 2013

Far From Home: The Book of Me ... Prompt # FIVE

Was Home

I can't believe that I used to call it, "home".
The place to which I ran, when a young man
whacked me with snowballs;
where I slammed doors in a rage
of teenage hormones,
or played the Moonlight Sonata
on the upright grand.

How many times,
I paced behind its windows,
waiting for another blind date
to shake my father's hand.

Those wretched kitchen cupboards!
That ratty carpet's edge that lined the stairs,
the patches—mismatched pieces filling in
the worn out spots, when I didn't care.

Unfinished projects, everywhere—
missing tiles, aborted things,
splattered paint where you were too impatient
to fling a cloth.

Solid dining suite, and Limoges miniatures
from a Euro-tour, behind glass—
keeping up with the middle class ...

Your disease made it hard to keep up;
the grass like a corn-crop after harvest (the birds loved it)
the pavement, cracked; woodwork hacked; eaves slack—

I grew to loathe the place, I once called "home".

When we sold it, you had no clue
(I would have given it away, if I'd had to).
It was a yoke, to be lifted.

As we turned up the road, for the last time,
I never turned my head,

and we drifted
from home.

Kat Mortensen©2012


  1. Replies
    1. Thanks, Kristin. It was very sad, and it does sadden me to think that I have no feeling for the house where I grew up, but my feelings are embedded in the positive emotions I have for the people who were there, not the building and the things it contained.

  2. Wow, there's a lot of pain there. Powerful.

    1. Thanks for reading and commenting, Andrea. Yeah, there definitely was pain. I still don't feel much for the house, but with time, I may come to have a quiet space for it in my memory.

  3. ..and yet, still, we called it home, but just like you said, for all those lovely moments of not what we had but who was there sharing it with us. Even the most bleakest of moments, (even snow balls driving hard into our back) there were those magical moments of words of love spoken and felt. Those were the days of our lives, evermore. You sure hit home with me on this post, and I like that picture, those windows opened up so wide, as I remember our windows, opened so little and my mother had them covered with curtains, that blocked so much of our view!

  4. Kat - you write so powerfully...I am in awe of your prowess. Conflicting emotions me thinks.