It's always strange, being home.
Home where I was a child,
where I became a not-child,
where I am not a child anymore.
I sat on this tree as child.
This oblique oak tree.
It was perfect for climbing.
And for kissing.
I sat by this pond as a not-child.
This rock-skipped sky-mirror.
It was perfect for picnics.
And for cake fights.
—
Today, as a not-child, I sat inside my memories:
My stories and my histories.
This childhood home-not-home
Is still home,
and yet not.
And, somehow, I find that comforting.
Lovely website Jess, Happy New Year!
It's great that you are still able to visit your home-not-home. After my release from the hospital and a few months of home rehab I ventured out to do the same. I spent the afternoon alone at a spot along the Nebraska river near where I grew up. Where we swam as kids, tanned on the sand bars as teenagers, or spent lazy summer afternoons and evenings among friends. A childhood friend of mine, recently elected our small town's mayor, allowed me the use of his riverside property to spend time alone, reflecting and being grateful to God for pulling me through. It is a home of sorts on the earth, but not THE home for me. Your photographs are…