Walking Home in the Fall

I went home to a foreignness 

where floods were dry and the summer blazed like a torch,

my memories of the previous winter still pungent 

while the objects in my room displaced to their comfort.

 

I walked home to a crisis

where they remembered me as I was in their last photographs,

my mind found itself in a nameless tragedy

where I was exotic for the ones I grew up with. 

 

I stayed with a divided will

fighting between nostalgia and estrangement,

often walking the same old route in my neighborhood 

I realized I was a visitor in my most familial spaces.

 

During the final hours of my absence

my presence was barely recognized 

for people of my memories wanted me to conform

to their picturesque imagination of my existence. 

 

Now this comes a surprise, for eyes that never knew me now do

and I remain a biscuit of their evening tea

but I wonder why was it so silent back then

when I was a part of their wind and they were of my shadow. 

 

I have only known home enough to go back to it

but it has changed every time for eight winters,

fear has it that if I manage to stay away for too long

I might lose a mother's touch, a bed to escape,

a father's faith and a place to belong.