I’ve always lived in my hometown, as a young girl my plans were to leave for a more exciting pasture. But alas, I fell in love, married young, had a few babies, who have now flown the nest. They search for exciting pastures of their own. Though they left us with instructions that we are to never move, even from this old house. Now we find ourselves the keepers of home, for them.
I am reminded of words that my Dad spoke often to those he loved, who were longing to leave. “Go, see the world, just remember, you can always come home.”
I know its streets,
T\the curves, the bricks,
the crumbling ones by railroad tracks.
I know its buildings,
the ones falling in piece by piece,
the hopeful ones, being made new.
I know its fountain,
the one in central park,
that calls out for children to come and dangle their feet.
I know the places that hold treasure,
the coffee shop that pours liquid gold,
the place that smells of books and wood.
I know its people,
the familiar bank teller,
who seeing my sorrow, cupped my hands in hers
The grandfather who walks in the mornings,
once cradling a bundle,
now steadies the back of a of a pink bicycle.
The young man, I silently cheered on,
as he lumbered along Main Street,
The mother in the electric wheelchair,
who waits at the bus stop,
in the sun, the rain, the snow.
It is a place where life is lived,
smiles are shared,
and shoulders rub.
Were dreams vanish, like paint fading in the sun,
yet hope can be found around the next corner.
I know the place of the white birch,
where the seasons change, each beautiful one.