This house feels like home
Like it’s where I’ve been all along. All
these years, all this life.
Passing strange, the log house and
all that happened there was
a dream I’m just waking from. Like, “Whew! I’m so glad it wasn’t real!
But it was.
Of course it was.
Yet that feeling has me in thrall right now, and
I’m not entirely sure
I want to disabuse it.
It feels a bit like betrayal,
on so many levels,
My dream. My home. My son’s painful life, and oblivious death.
A dream, a dream, a dream. And now,
I’m awake. Now,
it’s a bit of solace
I’d like to hold onto. I need
to hold onto.
All the curtains are hung, pictures,
in place, word art, (Q: What is a wall without a quote on it? A: A blank page!)
stuck to walls. My magic. My sparkle. My home.
The dream wasn’t all good, or
all bad. It simply was, and now it’s in the past. I don’t
long for it; how could I long for such sorrow?
Like a dream, let it fade into something less frightening, less
rending. Let the joy rise up and out, let it
follow me home.