By ELLA FITZPATRICK
Home is like a charted map.
You can follow it room to room.
Discovering each memory.
Which lights were always out.
Where my brother dug holes to China.
A train ride from L.A.
The only place I have ever known.
Home is the smell of antique furniture.
An aged wood aroma.
The worn cracks, like hundreds of rivers stretching across the table tops.
Home is the smell of fresh brewed coffee before daybreak.
It’s the cold, slippery wood floors,
and sliding over them in layers of fuzzy socks.
It’s the chill of the worn leather couch.
Hummingbirds flying by the window.
Home is the sewing machine humming.
The sprinklers pattering against the window like rain,
as the dewy grass shimmers like glitter in the morning sun.
Each memory is like a blink.
Each so quick, but not complete.