Home

There are many things

to not understand about me.

Why would they,

when they don't acknowledge who I am.

What I really am.

Standing here for so many generations,

In this place I love.

Of love

The warmth created inside me,

during those cold winter months.

And the failed attempts at cooling,

in the suffocating, summer heat.

The teal, azure and the white-capped ocean

I view

From my hilltop place.

I’ve seen it all, felt it all, heard it all.

Know it all.

Their secrets.

The every day, night.

The joy, sadness, fights.

Those stories and emotions that float up to my rafters,

where I store them,

for as long as I stand.

Even longer.

How those stories and feelings and emotions,

make me who I am.

Make them love me so much,

even years after they have moved away.

They drive by, or stop and look and reminisce.

Showing their new partners,

wives, husbands, kids.

“We used to live here,” they shout.

But they do not walk up the short path to touch me.

Why not?

After all I have given.

Do all of those generations realise,

the ghosts they sensed and saw

and feared,

weren’t there to frighten them.

The ghosts,

who are my dreams and memories,

are there for me.

They did not want to leave me,

this world.

Their world.

Now I sag and groan as I stretch.

The neighbourhood kids

tease and taunt me,

from a distance.

Come inside,

if you want to be scared,

loved,

cherished.

Remembered.

That’s what I do,

and

I have saved my best for last.

Come inside and really see

who I am.

I am Home.