you think you know a place {home is here. again}

you think you know a place.
it's because you do.
you know a place so well it hurts.
you think you remember.
you remember everything, in fact.
you remember what never be spoken again.
you remember what would never be believed, now.
you remember.
you remember her.
you remember being small.
you remember being hungry.
you remember every apartment, ever park, every school, every block, every friend, every everything.
you think you know a place.

it's because you do.

it's because you once did.
it's because body memory records.
it's because body memory breathes. lives. documents. stores.

just because you know a place. does not mean you can know a place forever.
places change.
places die.
places transform.
places grow old with you. and the same place, looks young to someone else.

you think you know a place.
and then you go away. for a long time.
you visit.
when you can afford to.
when you cannot afford to.
and subtly, you see the changes in your place.
years go by.
you live in a half dozen places.
you try and call each of them home.

but you know where you're from.
you know who made you.
you know what made you.
you can never forget.
even when you drink
even when you cut
even when you hide
even when you run
even when you drown
even when you love

you think you know a place.

 it's because you do.

and now.
now is decades later.
now she's gone.
but you see her everywhere.
most of all, she resides in you.

and now. the place is yours again. and so you walk.
and walk.
and walk.

you think you know a place.
but it never hurts to re-introduce.
to explore.
to make lists. to go back. to show the city that's yours, that's home, that's complicated

to someone else.
to yourself.
you take yourself on dates.
notice. stare. look up!

this place you know?
this place you have known forever?
this place that has made you. fought you. scarred you. challenged you. held you close. never let go. never meant to---
this place that you have always loved? this place you have always feared? this place you have always tasted. even when you called elsewhere home.

this place is meant to be shared.

you think you know a place. because you do. because you can. because you want.
{you want so hard.}

you know it. you know this place.

it's yours to have.

Comments

[Vivian]

So poignant. A beautiful musing. Thank you for sharing.

[holly]

heartbreaking, marvelous, thank you. also say hi to the captain's daughters' houses for me.

[Athen]

methinks you've written what the word remembering means, beautiful you.

[Kelley Gibler]

It is a courageous woman indeed who dares to go home. Dares to find herself there, dares to stay. What a journey it has been, not unlike Dorothy and those damn shoes. I'm still finding my way, holding your hand, tighter in the dark. Love you.

[Victoria]

This poem in which you reflect joy, pain, love, longing, and grief leaves me breathless.

[Joan T.]

my last trip home, to the ravaged eastern suburbs of new orleans with my late grandfather, to pick through the remains of my childhood home, was one of the most difficult trips i've made in my life.

and yet, it was ultimately satisfying, despite being amidst the billions of aspergillus spores and decaying body of the family cat...a final moment to remember, to relive a million polaroids in the blink of an eye, to find my grandfather's wwii discharge papers, and to achieve closure.

thank you for reminding me to remember the myriad gumbos, jambalayas, pastas, crawfish boils, biscuits, beignets po-boys and king cakes. and most of all, when standing knee-high next to my grandmother, being hefted up and helping to stir the roux, blending until it achieved that golden brown that i knew meant dinner was just a few hours away. i still feel her arms guiding me and hear her voice every time i step into my own hearth, and when i meet new friends online.

thank you! well met.

[Jon Savage]

speechless. well done Shuna. I once had a place that evoked that same feeling- 30 years later still not gone back. too much pain & joy to confront there...

[zum]

beautiful

[naomi]

Like the words. Funny that in the comments there is one from NOLA, where I now live, having left my home city ten years ago - it was long gone before I left, and when I drive back I cry when I first see it, missing too many, dozens I will always love, ache to see again. New Orleans is similar to the feel of my childhood, more comfortable, with an emphasis on friendship and food and of course, wine. Went through the flood time, lost some friends - that ache chasing me, knocking me down, knawing my neck. I've given up trying to hide, it follows us all, doesn't it?