The House that Burned

Home is the house that burned.

The one from the photograph you could swear Mom kept in a box in the attic,

along with all the other memories held back,

collecting dusty beams of sunshine.

And in that house was the first room you lived in,

the one that you lit at night with a bulb

in the shape of a cartoon character,

because it warded off the onslaught of Night. The room

that housed your books, and the hours that they read to you,

sitting on your blankets, or in the rocking chair,

and made up all the voices of your best friends.

It held the remaining energy of all your excitement

on the windy Spring day you had your first kiss in the schoolyard,

behind that tired oak tree,

and all the boredom of Summer rain,

and the tears of Autumn when she broke it all off. And you screamed

through the door at Dad to go away, nothing would make me feel better.

And it held the hallway you stepped into a moment later, tear-stained

and tired, and felt the rug sigh under your feet,

and you thought somewhere behind your mind that

"I am home."

It is the house on the lakeside,

the cabin in the mountain,

the getaway set of rooms on the furthest backroads.

It is in that neighborhood of misty remembrance,

where everyone has long since disappeared

like those old boxes of photographs, dipping down

through the curves of your mind's eye

until the faces are interchangeable but the names

and the laughter

are exquisite.

Home is the thought that comes

when the day is done and you get the text from your boss

asking you to come in to cover Sarah's shift

(and the last thing you want is to cover Sarah's shift)

and the key goes into the door

and the lock turns in its gateway

and the majesty of your space envelops you.

"With all my possessions," I thought,

"Yes, this is now home,

"just as that house of naïve youth was home back then."

But home is not the house that burned down,

the one you moved out of on the hardest day of your life,

the one that stood vacant when the movers left with its innards

and that vanished into a row of shingles and clouds when you turned the corner.

Home is not the escape of the present familiar,

with the boisterous roommates

and the resigned knowledge that I could be so much more,

live somewhere more,

if only I were more.

"All my stuff's here,"

but it's not what makes up home.

They're just items.

Home

is where they came from,

and all that reliable shelter they bring.

Home

beyond all aspirations

and all exasperations

is the smile of those happy to see me,

the laugh I bring my best friends,

the warmth of their arms around me,

the memories held in those sun-dusted photographs,

up in the attic of previous lifetimes.

Home is the four-doored cell

that beats in my chest

just a bit quicker when I see them again.

It is

the tears I shed on their shoulders;

the unabashed sorrow, adoration, and individuality they allow me to feel

in vulnerability:

those flames burn higher and brighter

and more brilliant than any house I've called home.