Home for the Holidays

When you go back home, it isn’t quite the same.

I drove by 4245 Wyoming today. It was still brick and stucco and the porch that was all mine was still there.

Yet it was like an amputated body part, lifeless and still, in the wet December rain.

You cannot go back, I think. Even though I love old things: old house, used cars, antique furniture, vintage clothes. What is left in your hand is only the dust molecules of the past, like dead skins cells.

I am safe, right now, inside Ford’s new house, and inside the moment. That is, after all, the only safe time. This breath. This blink. This sigh. I listen to Ford and Colin laugh in the next room and I am safe: between today, yesterday and tomorrow.

Tell me what it is I am supposed to do, when I come back. When I step back, inside the fast-forwarded, ongoing lives of my friends, left here.

I never know.

I still love them like brothers… I just don’t know if we can make music again. –Beanie Sigel

Elizabeth Howard

Elizabeth writes literary non-fiction, haiku, cultural rants, and Demand Poetry in order to forward the cause of beautiful writing. She calls London, Kansas City, and Iowa home. 

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