How Can I Forget Each Haven We Created as if We Would Live Forever?
“Where thou art, that is home.” — Emily Dickinson
A lump in my throat and teardrops well
As I write this poem of
A dozen homes over four decades
Each made with a unique blend of us.
And here, the last home we shared,
I remember the history of every shelf
And curtain track we put up,
Bickering or bantering,
Is it straight?
Spirit level and spiritual levels vying for attention.
His cursing as a drill bit breaks,
The coffee table he built from scrap wood
And I painted blue,
The huge couch we bought at the second-hand shop.
How can I forget each haven we created as if we would live forever?
I behold and touch the
Saucepans, utensils, lamps, and curtains,
We were so certain and safe wherever we were —
A house, an apartment, or cottage —
We made each a retreat from all troubles,
A haven of peace where we could cease our
Wondering and wandering,
Leave darkness at the door,
Enter our private heaven to smile…