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You Can Never Go Home

I began to dig:
Through snow
Through frozen ground
Through crust,
Took one more step and fell

The light could’ve melted my skin
Horizon covered by the sun
I was a child again:

Wet on a rubber patio chair
My father’s not short, my mother’s long hair
I’ll swim the rest of the day

But
Who was my brother?
How high was my voice?
What color was my towel?

Their flesh slowly sags
I can never go home.

Dear Bacarolle ~ On my fairly rare trips home, I have experienced moments such as this.....so much comes flooding back, yet even in the flood, some of the details seem gone forever. Having grown up with snow and ice and many outdoor days, I loved reading the way you the layers of this kind of scene as a metaphor. It spoke to me of some of the sadness I experience during such times of on-site memory recall. Trips to northern Michigan and to the location where I lived with my husband while we were married are very impacting in this visceral kind of way.

~Lizzytysh