the way home

 

 

 

 

 

“But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long.”

 

 

~ Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

she once made me a rag doll
with a mop of yellow yarn hair

 

 

 

 

 

dream on repeat

 

 

 

 

 

I’m 16
I smell of Love’s Baby Soft
and everything is pink
and fresh and romantic
like a love letter

 

 

 

 

 

 

big red

 

 

 

our clubhouse was in the hayloft of the old barn
hot and stuffy in summer
freezing cold in winter
we listened to Beatle records over and over again
on a dusty turntable

 

 

warmth

 

 

 

the sweet scent of oranges
warm yellow walls
her curtains were gingham
like the aprons she sewed