A Phone Call With Myself In 1998

Somewhere between a Google Maps binge

And a panic attack while mowing my landlord’s lawn,

I thought about calling home.

“Operator, get me Northern Ontario in 1998 please.

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe late summer. Just before the early maples

Turn all sugary and red.”

Some kid with a high pitched voice answered. “Dovigi Household.”

“Hey, kid. What is home?” I asked.

--

Home is the rhubarb behind Grandma's house.

Home is the sugar shack, the carriage ride, the smell of horse and maple.

Home is going to all the cousins' birthdays. Even Carly in Sudbury.

Home is the second pew from the back at Church.

Home passing the phone over to dad, because he's the only one who can understand Gramps's Parkinsons voice.

Home is where the snow-boots are.

Home is where the heart is.

--

Oh, kid.

Home is where the heart is when your heart's not in it.

Home is where I remember you.

Home is where I try to sleep.

Home is where I get internet. After internet comes hot water. After hot water comes bedsheets.

Then my cat. Our cat.

Actually, fuck the whole affair. Home is a glittering generality.

Ants have homes. Anything that burrows has a home. I don’t know about you, but I don’t burrow.

Home is The Wind in the Willows.

Yeah, that’s it.

The Wind in the Willows.

You’re going to read that book. Late, age 28.

When Water Rat and Mole trudge through the snowy woods,

get themselves lost, and are saved from a frozen death by Badger at the last minute,

and they all snuggle up in his giant den by the fire while the snow falls outside...

...that’s all I got. That would be home.

But

Then again

Maybe

Home

is simply messing about in boats.