Home is a red-shuttered house with over- grown hosta plants, sold to a Chinese couple whose translator loved our hummingbird feeders and the way the house faced East. We had a swimming pool, frog pond, two pink bikes and matching helmets--mismatched childhood memories nine years behind me--
we moved to a ranch, where I painted my room the color soft, baby grass fighting through wintergreen fertilizer, the kind my father scattered over our front lawn, hoping to grow something above the underground spring flooding muddy, brown, saturated as we became when my mother remembered her locked-away childhood, my father broke his back, my sister succumbed to self-blame,
and I cleaned up after it all. Our ranch holds these events in its powder-blue walls, creaks at night and wakes me from a dream repeating nine times over--where I stand inside that red- shuttered house, beside an eleven-year-old me with honey hair bleached from too much sunlight, speaking softly: you’re almost home.