On the House, the Home, and Homesickness

They ask the differences of

the house, the home;

I say the house is what you see

And the home is what you feel

But

how intertwined they are:

the corners that make your kitchen

inextricable from

your mother’s face as she

serves her lasagna

the position of your couch as it faces

the television: the house

that is the home to the stories

that filled your brain

and

nurtured your

developing consciousness

the door isn’t a door

it’s a portal, to

the first spot you slugged off

your muddy shoes

the gap where your mother’s shouts

echoed to the outside,

blistering your ears,

meeting your mother’s whispers

telling you

it’s okay while

picking pebbles out of your bloody knees

the home meets the house in

the mundanity of

laundry detergent,

the buzz of your leaky fridge,

that stubborn doorknob

in the way your sheets could

envelop you without struggle in

your bed where you

could wake up without doubts

or confusion, save

a few lingering dreams

sifting from your brain as

your dad’s sizzling bacon

saves your senses:

snap, crackle, pop.

fat, meat, salt,

home.

they ask me

what’s a house?

they ask me

what’s a home?

what I want to tell them is that,

we say we’re homesick

so we miss what we feel

you know,

home is where the heart is--

but!

the heart can’t fill

a house like that

scruffy carpet can

or those

wood floors and that

length of hallway;

perfect for running and

sliding

in our countless socks

we withered down to

mush

I’m homesick,

I say,

and I think of

the order my mother would

flip on the light switches:

a sequence created in

a house but

found only in

our home

the way the windows

danced light off our

many hanging pictures:

static architecture and the setting sun

meeting

our dynamic design and wandering eyes

so I guess what I should say,

maybe,

is that

I can’t be homesick without

a home

and I can’t say home without

my house and

well, I, uhh…

next question

please?