I know that home is not a place…

I know that home is not a place;

But there’s something about the whispered memories of my childhood bedroom,
And the sound of footsteps on those stairs, like lyrics to my first favorite song.

I know that home is not a place;

But some scents existed only there, when dinner simmered on the stove,
And everyone gathered at the table.
That picture window held the view where I waited for the school bus each morning.

I know that home is not a place;

But I still feel the pull of the barn roof’s ridgeline,
Where I would sneak out at night to sit and watch the moon.
And there is something sacred about the earth
Where my first dog was laid to rest.

I know that home is not a place;

Our forts, our treehouse, our playthings are long gone,
Yet when I stand there and close my eyes,
I can still hear our laughter, our shouts, our sibling squabbles.

I know that home is not a place;

But memories fade, and I need something to remind me where I came from,
Like the feel of warm earth beneath bare feet,
Walking a ditch bank in a summer thunderstorm.

I know that home is not a place;

But I also know that home, as it was, will never exist again.
And I mourn the place home used to be.