At home, there is fullness.
There is not taking for granted
the smell of your mother
or the shuffle of her
soft pajama pants as she
makes you both coffee in the
quiet unmoving morning.
Blanket. Colors. Television.

At home, there is forgetting.
There is a solid layer between
you and the demands of
The World. Your family takes
your hand, persuades you:
“just stay here. Sit down. Have
another cup of coffee”.
Quiet. Agreements. Closed windows.

At home, there is guilt.
No, there is a version of guilt
that is more like longing.
It’s more like wishing that seconds
were as long as millenia.
Knowing that you’re choosing to
leave this behind.
Put on a coat. Pack a bag. Cause a commotion.
Break the silence that
defines this comfortable and loving
place.

But you know that
at home, there is leaving.
There is expending of time and energy.
There must be chunks of yourself that
you throw out there to The World
because it matters.
Fear. Exhaustion. Exhilaration.
There are things to be seen, and lived.
There are people to meet.
There is a better self to be found.
There are notches to make
on your belt, and boxes to check
on your list.

There are sisters, mothers, brothers, dogs, cats, frogs, couches, blankets, dinners, colors
to tell these things too.
Because at home,
there is always coming home.