i really miss home

i miss the quiet of the public library

i miss the subtle hum of small-town streets

i miss butterscotch Italian sodas

as my fifteen-year-old self

and my father

wander in town to discover another world


i miss the pace

i miss memorizing phone numbers

and talking for hours about meaningless games

and imaginary worlds with vast expanses

where i battled fictionary demons

and giants

and dragons

i miss the cowfield out back

where every twig was a dagger

every stick was a sword

every tree was an orc


i miss the roads

and everything connects

and everything is slow

no bright little screens

just a rare street light

and the stars’ dim shining

the cows moan early and often

and everything is magnificent


i revisit it

in brief, sweet moments

when my mother & i

watch an old horror film

and talk about books

and i sleep comfortably on my parents’ couch

as it rains

and i’m home

i remember it

when i stop

and i stay

and my father and i toss a football

he’s wearing a sweatshirt and a ball cap

on a crisp autumn afternoon

and i’m home

and sometimes

i wonder

will my son be as blessed?

can i teach him to learn

and to stop

and to listen

and to savor

and to create

and to enjoy

and love

and live

and work

and rest

the way my mother and father taught me?

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