Home is where the heart is, so they say.
But where is my heart? When the wind blows tumbleweed across the cracks in the sand, they pick up debris as they roll on by. Where is my heart?
“It is not down on any map,” as they say – “true places never are.”
And home isn’t the same anymore; it never was. It can be fleeting
We and the river are constant change – ever-evolving, turning a new leaf just as tiny roots stretch their newborn legs into soft, brown soil.
And still we chase, gather, hunt. Nostalgia. Birth. Rebirth. Brown, cracked leaves, brown leaves covered in rain.
(Is home an illusion?)
I reach down, frantically picking up dark brown leaves, shoving them in my pockets – some crack in my hands, some are wet and pliable and I gather them, desperate and hungry – barely noticing the feeling of wet earth between my toes.
“Home.” “Home.” “Home.”
My pockets are full, bulging with dead leaves.
Is it down on any map?
(True places never are)
I just want to feel safe in the constance of your smile.
Something about the dirt between my toes tells me I’ve got nothing to do but be.
Something about the earth beneath my feet tells me I’m here.
Something about the sand inside my pockets tells me it’s now.
Home is where the heart is. But where is my heart?
I stuff my hands in my pockets and squeeze the soft brown leaves. If I close my eyes and breathe in the deep forest air, I know my heart is in the feeling I get when I hear you say,
“One of the happiest moments in my life was watching the sun rise this morning.”
My heart is in your laughter.
My heart is in “I love you.”
It was then that I knew,
Honey, I’m home.