Prose Poem: Home

Prose Poem

Home

Going home.  I’m going home.  A common phrase, everyone uses it. It means something different to everyone in the end.  Some are talking about that building where they sleep and eat.  Home, or is it just a house.  Maybe, they are referring to that group of people they live with…family or room-mates.

Home…an enigma.  I’ve lived in so many places, that if you say home, I just get a sort of blank in my mind.  The buildings were there, sometimes people too.  No, there has always been people.  People are everywhere in my life.  People I care for, people who care for me.

Home…when I hear “Country Road” I cry.  Every single time.  Home seems to be a part of something I’ve never really known.  An idea I’ve never really known.  I don’t envy people who have always lived in one town and know everyone who lives near them.  I look on in wonder: what would it feel like to be a part of such an existence?  To go somewhere and then return and say: “I’m home!”

My home, is here, inside me.  It’s peopled by the memories I’ve experienced.  The moments of laughter and happiness that pop up from no where, maybe because the sun is slanted in the right direction.  Smells, like apple pie, bring me back to a time so far past that I shouldn’t remember it at all, but there I am in a kitchen, the pie just out of the oven and I’m home.

When I travel by train, I watch the countryside roll by.  I enjoy visiting friends and family, but after a while, I get tired.  Because there’s really no place for me, I’m a guest, passing through their existence.  After a week I catch the train and return to Trentino.  When I see the mountains for the first time, I sigh, with relief, with joy and I think, “I’m home!”

Home…I’m more at home when I’m alone I guess.  Alone, because for the most part of my life that is what I’ve been.  Alone in a sea of people.

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6 thoughts on “Prose Poem: Home

  1. In one sense, I’m always home – because the memories stay with me. My three adult children consider home as where their parents – Lisa and I – live. That’s lovely, I reckon.

    Peace,
    Eric

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    • I was raised in many places, so my home in the end is my memories. My older sons live off in Rome and with their families and that’s home to them. For my youngest, home is where we are. It’s love to be sure!

      Have a great day! Georgia.

      Like

  2. I’m not a country music afficionado. Nor am I a John Denver fan either. But he has two songs that do bring tears to my eyes. One is Country Road. The other is Sunshine. Maybe it’s because it harkens back to a certain time in my life decades ago.

    Like you we have moved so much. Where is home indeed. But we have lived longest in our current home. It’s getting a little to big for empty nesters like us but somehow, we can’t seem to give it up. Sigh!

    You are right, as long as you are “home” inside you, home is anywhere. Thanks for that insight.

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    • Thanks for this comment. Country music is not my genre either, usually. However I lsten to all sorts of music and every genre has been able to inspire me at one time or another, this said, I agree that the two most moving songs he produced were those you mentioned!
      You seem to be on the same road I’ve travelled! I too am living in a house we moved into way back in ’94. Now my son has grown-up, and though this is a beautiful region it doesn’t offer much work, so he won’t be coming back here to live. The house is now empty and rattles and we’ve been thinking of moving on. Who knows. But as a glob trotter I’ve had to learn that the saying “Home is where you hang your hat…” is true.

      Like

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