I am only, always
just a resident alien
on a yoyo between worlds,
with a foreign address,
borrowed rooms,
and a “home”
where I never live.
At least not yet.

Meanwhile everything
is temporary.
A modern nomad,
I have no herds,
just other moveable goods:
my books, my music,
practical clothes,
and indications
of my nesting instinct
like candles, chocolate,
the essential coffeepot,
and photos.

Not even family
stays intact:
I trail children
in my wake,
some here, some there;
siblings halfway
around the world,
parents all back
where we come from.
Friends are lost to distance
or to silence.

Memories of
discarded nests
of back and forth
and torturous goodbyes
move in succession
through my thoughts.
Airports have sanded
off my heart
until it’s raw.
Togetherness and roots
are the elusive stuff
of dreams.

Just call me
partnered with
my Abe,
packing up
and moving on,
risking everything
on promises
and for the sake of the Voice.

We do have resting places;
we’ve left our markers there,
something permanent
in all the transience.
They stand as firm reminders
of epiphanies.
Whenever we can circle back
in thought or fact,
we do.

And there,
we find that gratitude
and confidence renewed
gives hope a boost,
and keeps us headed
in our true direction:
a country where
we’ll turn in suitcases
for all the comforts
of Home.


©2002 Thrive

View the original print magazine where this article was first published.