Monday, July 25, 2005

Home

We finally got home last night. The cat was still at the kennel. Toys, magazines, bits of mail – oddments of a thousand kinds – lay strewn about from our hurried vacation-exit of two weeks ago. The air was stale and unbreathed. Home felt foreign, oddly exotic for such a familiar place.

It made me think of this poem by Philip Larkin: Home is so Sad.


This morning, the kids play, throwing new toys on top of the old while the cat chases underfoot, uncertain of which direction to fly – toward the chaos or away from it. I look through the cupboards, finding the glasses and plates in all the right places, and know if I closed my eyes I could find my way through the mess as though I had never left. This morning, home is my most comfortable pair of shorts – as loose and easy as sitting on the floor eating the last of the ice cream straight from the tub.

Today, home is a poem by William Carlos Williams: This Is Just To Say.

6 comments:

'Thought & Humor' said...
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Patry Francis said...

I love the way you see the world through the poems you love.

P. A. Moed said...

Sharon,
You remind me that a home has a soul, too! You'll soon sift through the chaos and find it again.

Welcome back!

bevjackson said...

WElcome back, Sharon. The poems are apt and I'm glad you're home safely.

Hamel said...

Welcome home. You capture the beauty of home, particulary the beauty we overlook until we're away from it and then return. You highlight the difference between house and home.

Sharon Hurlbut said...

Thanks all! It's good to be back home.