Member Poem

Home Comb

If you asked me where home was,

I might say College Avenue,

I might say Vine Street,

and I might say Stonewall Road.

How can someone have three homes?

How can a place be home,

when tragedy has snapped her cruel fingers,

and detached you.  

Emotionally detached you.

Memories that pull,

and pull,

and pull you away.

Like a group of strong men playing tug of war.

Until you don’t know where home is.

You have no idea.

Is my home up in the stars,

where I can be alone?

Or in a house with my family?

Where my mother cooks an amazing meal every night,

food with rice soft but not squishy,

and masala sauce that is spicy but not painful.

Or in Mannheim, or Dudelange city,

where I can be a new person?

A person who didn’t have to worry about her family,

or about a house.

A person who doesn’t hear conversations hush when she enters through the door,

conversations of families,

and of secrets long kept.

I could be the person who visits family as much as possible,

but also the person who had a normal childhood,

the person who doesn’t have to listen to leaders tear her down,

because of her religion.

These are the thoughts that occupy my mind at night.

The thoughts that leave me,

eyes slowly blinking,

staring at the ceiling for hours.

When you ask me to picture home,

I picture something different every time,

an old house,

my family surrounding me.

Sometimes I picture an apartment,

bricks discolored to a light red with age,

on the corner of a street in Mannheim.

I imagine myself walking down the street,

groceries in arm,

walking up stairs and unlocking a door,

comfort and safety waiting inside.

Home would just be me,

a cat,

and a library.

A library of George R.R. Martin,

and the Avett Brothers.

My mother’s waffles,

and occasionally other people.