I'm trying to feel at home here.
Sitting in your kitchen,
Staring across at you,
Dipping my fingers
In this lavender pool
And adorning my fingertips
With candle wax hoods.
It's been three months
And I'd thought I'd be better by now.
But your lights still seem too yellow
And your milk still tastes like water.

You're busy reading the back of your new album,
And I think you've forgotten I'm here.
Your grandmother sobs
In the room next to us.
I take two deep breaths
Of the custard air in the room
Before I can quietly say,
"Um. Your grandmother is crying again."
A pause.
"She does that alot,"
You say, never once looking from your album.
"Oh."
I allow the space between us to fill again.
"W-why does she do that?"
A pin just dropped.
"She just does.
Every time she thinks of Palisades Park.
Which is often."
"Oh."

Something inside of me feels sad.
Something inside of me is angry at you
For not caring.
Why don't you go to her
And tell her it's alright?
Remind her that the mail comes again tomorrow,
And maybe she'll have something in the morning.
But no.
You don't even move.
I look down at this candle,
Cratered like the face of the moon.
I stand up and walk out.
You don't even notice.

The lamp is the life support of this room,
Barely giving light in orange tones,
Your grandmother a lump on the couch.
I stare at her from a distance,
In this room that does not feel like home either.
Slowly and nearly tip-toed, I approach the couch.
My body is shaking,
But I sit down beside her.
She does not turn, she does not stir,
But she tries to hush her sobs.

I’ve tried to feel at home here.
But no matter how many times your mother says it,
“Make yourself at home, sweetheart.”
I still feel the need to ask permission
To even turn on the TV,
And your father is still
The single most intimidating man I know.

This isn't home.
This will never be.
The itch will always stay.
Forever will I long for my staircase,
And the study,
And my home.
I try, but this is not home.
I look at your grandmother once more,
Seeing bits of her break
With each sob.
I reach out and hold her hand,
"It's alright,"
I say,
Though nothing is alright.
"It's alright,"
I say,
"It's okay."