Antarctic Poem #11: The Traveling Tree Poem

The Traveling Tree

Home,
you are not the comfort of the crib that once sat
against the slanted walls of the dome
or the not-too-cradling arms of my free-spirited,
twenty-six-year-old parents.

You are not the
gravely elementary school yard
where my jelly-shoed feet got blisters or the
squeaky swing set I jumped out of and broke my nose.

Once you were a raspberry lined river, a tire swing
and buried frogs in the sandbox.

But you are not the red sailor dress
my mother made me wear on the first day
of junior high school or the first red spot of womanhood.

Nor are you the once white, nearly brown Keds I wore
to softball practice when I couldn’t afford better sneakers,
or the rash I got from my first corsage.

Home, you are not the courtroom
where my parents argued and exchanged angry hurt
or the martyrdom of my mother afterwards.

Oh I wish you were, but you are not the President of
Spanish club or a 4.0 or graduation with honors.
You are not the after school job or before school job or
the first real job or my sketchy studio apartment on the hill.

You are not the chaos and roar of my
twenties: the empty Boones Farms bottles, green
clover pills or slashed arms.

And you are definitely not the stark emergency rooms,
jail-like hospital beds or disenchanted doctors that poked
me until my veins collapsed.

Home,
despite what they say,
you are not at the bottom of the world either.

And yet.

I have seen you in my mother’s garden full
of hens and chicks, witnessed you in the stability
and craftsmanship of my father’s work.
I remember you in a game of King’s Corner
with my little brother.

From time to time, I find you in my own
creation of sanctuary and solitude.

You are that place I go
when I need to be reminded of who I am
and where I forget what I should be.

You wait for me in the pages of a good
book while I marinate under a warm and heavy blanket.
You are the satisfaction of a new recipe that
turns out just right; the indulgence of that second
glass of wine and the redness it brings to my cheeks.

Your acceptance lies in the unexpected
‘thank you’ from my boss and the support I get
from someone I hadn’t counted as a friend.

Home,
you are the absence of work boots and dress shoes;
the luxury of slippers and barefoot mornings.

I taste you in the lazy deliciousness of left-over
Chinese food and revel in my embarrassing
knowledge of the lyrics to a Lady Gaga song.

You are the excitement of two, beautifully knit,
same-sized mittens and a well played game of chess,
the reluctant delight in a bedtime routine
and the spontaneous lunch time adventure.

You are the almost-too-long road trip with
my best friend and the misfortune of clogged water
pipes that result in garbage disposal face paint.

Home, you are the sunny afternoon stretch
of a Norwegian Forrest cat.

I find you in the simple comfort of holding
hands, the hesitation in letting that hand go and
the pride in being able to stand alone.

Home
you are my roots,
my trunk, my traveling tree.