It is a mixture of relief, as welcoming an old friend, and a melancholy longing.

This is my home
where I grew up
I remember each corner, each nook and cranny
The roads leading to my front door
Sounds and smells of spring at home.
Telling my children,
“this, this is the bedroom I slept in;
this is where I played.
This yard, here, where my father tossed two pounds of peanuts
on two huge tarps
for my birthday.
Do you see that playground?
That was my playground.
They’ve taken the swings.
I don’t know where the swings are.
Where have they taken my swings?
Oh, and this, do you see this?
I carved my name in this wooden beam when I was ten.
I wonder where they’ve taken my swings.”

I am home.

cenobyte is a writer, editor, blogger, and super genius from Saskatchewan, Canada.

1 Comment

  1. hi! i understad your fillings!im also like that!im so phare from my home but i put some marks there,i have my tree, my place there but nothing is mine now.

i make squee noises when you tell me stuff.

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