I moved back into my childhood home today.
Fragments of memories piece themselves together as I disassemble my belongings and reassemble my former years.
These papers were for my science project. My mother kept them near.
Here is a photo of the hospital I was born at; an angel had landed here.
And all of the books we never got to reading, I think they are very dear.
Why my mother left it all behind, I think it is very clear.
My fingers know where the light switches are. I do everything by habit. I do not have to ask where the trash bin is. We have never moved it. It makes no sense to.
There’s a ghost I cannot shake, however, of a feeling that lingers here.
I do not want to be afraid of home, but I worry that feeling is fear.
Will I feel at home where I never felt at home? This angel has disappeared.