Our stories tell us who we are. ~Donald Davis
I’ve been around this world in more ways than one.
But when I’m with you, it’s like I’m right where I come from.
What would it be like to reclaim home? I couldn’t wait to get away, I never go back anymore, and yet most of my dreams are still set there.
The truth is, I have been returning in subtle ways for a while now: I bought a painting of the marsh; wrote poems about my grandmother (and the marsh); hung the amazing charcoal drawing that Christy did at eight years old, partly because it reminds me of the bank of the creek where I grew up.
I find home in my husband, am “at home” with my friends, have stories beyond my childhood home that tell me who I am. But a huge part of me was shaped by the place I grew up. I may finally understand this poem I wrote in 1991.
Morning shone on the coverlet
The near corner, fluttering
An entrance–or an exit.
Noon bared the muddy theater.
The brazen crane strutted,
As if on his last promenade.
Green-yellow, faded now
The marsh hens trip like debutantes in the fringe
But fear a miring in the middle.
Come night, great equalizer
Bring easy honesty
When entrances and exits are the same.
(originally published in Georgia Journal, Summer 1991)