The home you grew up in
For my wife
Is the home you grew up in
your home until the end?
Some might say so.
But what if that home
was not a home at all, but
an album of memories
one fears to open, dreading
the pain and cresting waves of shame?
I'd like to think one's
home is not tied to origin, but
consists of the four
walls of love wherein one
feels immutably safe.
I grew up in concrete casings
amidst roaring steel trains,
only to find, years later, an
unrequited love for the unbridled sea.
The sea with its mist
and coastline meandering
like an ordinary soul seeking its path—
its sight and sound, its
salty fragrance, truer
than the grid-pattern streets of yesteryear.
And you, my love, the truest
of the true, are like the
sea to me. I trace your tides
throughout the shore of my life,
and the mystery unveiled is
that my life has been consumed by
the beautiful, furious storm
of our one shared existence.
Your presence to me is salt,
drawing out the essence hidden within,
like the sea stirring life from its depths.
In your embrace, I am a seabird
finding refuge and respite
in a cliff's quiet hold.
Is the home you grew up in
your home until the end?
Some might say so.
For some, it might be true.
But what I know is that
when I am with you
I have surely found the sea afresh—
and the groundswell we
feel beneath our toes, well,
that must be home.