Heart Is Where The Home Is.
You can never go back home when it's gone but you can always make new ones to cherish
I go back often to those acres of fields where my childhood home once stood
Heart Is Where The Home Is.
It's just a golf course now
where our humble
home once squatted,
in the projects
found offensive
by wealthier
neighbors. That place
where we laughed
and played,
in our youthful
splendor. Mom's been
separated as well
into two
precious urns
both cherished,
one in California
in a magnificent
marble mausoleum,
and one in my
sister's house nearby. Dad sits only
miles from me
on the cusp
of death,
a shell of what
he once was,
but I can hear
his oceans of love,
when I draw near
to kiss his cheek. Occasionally I return,
to the eighth hole,
where memories
were demolished,
to remember
the sights and smells
of a childhood vanished.
Yet I realize as I wander
the acres that went
from ratty shacks
to caddy shacks,
that you can
never truly
go back home....
except in
your heart.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III
