Coming Home

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.