Tag: writing

In my mind, I travel to a place where
My passport is no longer valid,
And will not provide me with admittance.
I look through the window that contains
Only memories of the place that
Once was my safe harbor called home.
Of the arms and hearts of my parents who loved me,
But are no longer alive.

I see the home decorated for birthday parties,
My dad making sure his girls had pretty party dresses
Where even our dog was dressed up for the festivities.
The yard full of neighborhood kids and cousins,
A swing set where ghost stories were told,
A rabbit hutch that was transformed into a clubhouse,
and summer carnivals with games and the best homemade fudge.

I see the joy of trips to Piseco Lake,
And the cabin that would be home for a week.
Canoe rides to the island in the middle of the lake,
And nights at the dump nearby,
With the hopes of spotting bears
From the shelter of our station wagon.

The annual trip to Cayuga Lake with my mom and siblings,
and my maternal aunt with her two youngest children.
We stayed in cabin 8, the biggest cabin with two bedrooms,
Though the bathrooms and showers were down the road.

The sadness of my father leaving Sunday night to return to work in Syracuse
Would soon be filled with days when other relatives would visit,
And we would be free range children,
swimming in the lake and fishing from the pier,
catching sunfish and throwing them back into the lake
for someone else’s hook to snare them.
Buying candy at the little shop down the road,
And exploring places that we weren’t supposed to go.

The longing for my parents and the grounding that they provided
Is something that I’m still learning to grasp.
When I return to the city of my birth,
With a hole in my heart that cannot be fixed.
The house that held these memories
Means nothing without the souls
Who once dwelled there.