Leaving Home

For the better part of 53 years,
I called a single house home.
I had the same address, same phone number,
and watched streaks of sunlight
move in and out of south-facing windows
with the same slow precision from
one equinox to the next.

Three times the 17-year cicadas returned
while I grew up, argued with a brother,
lost a sister, fell in love, married,
birthed a son, lost a father, birthed a
daughter, earned a master’s degree, divorced,
discovered the wilderness, fell in love,
kept company with cancer, and cared
for a mother until she died.
And then I left.

Whenever I return, memories
dash across the lawn to greet me.
They chat in the front hall,
play duets on the piano and viola
in the living room, dance,
bake apricot upside down cakes.
They jump out of cupboards when
I look for what I once knew was there,
laugh in the basement over martinis
and a rousing match of ping pong,
hide under blankets in the coat
closet and set off smoke alarms
with their cigars.
They are quite unwilling
to leave me alone.

These days I call a new house home.
I have a new address and phone number,
but still I watch streaks of sunlight
move in and out of south-facing windows
with the same slow precision from
one equinox to the next.

The 17-year cicadas returned to Illinois,
but here in Oklahoma, we count time
with wind and tornado, fire and ice.
We hold parties in safe closets,
go to sleep by candlelight, rake acorns
until we go nuts and the next year,
worry there are no acorns.
And in the meantime,
I gained a daughter-in-law and two
grandchildren, lost a brother,
broke a foot, started my own theatre
company, married, shattered my right knee,
and fell in love
with new memories.

It took a while after I left home
to make a new home, but now that I have,
the old memories have found me.
I greet them with affection,
baggage and all.