Homecoming

Another Homecoming November 8 2009


Each trip leads to a new homecoming,

Changing what “home” means to me.

This time, I’d felt compelled to leave the house we’d shared

So I could grow new memories

For the day you died.

Of course, I felt your presence on that day.

I also missed the sense of safety I feel here.

Today, I looked around at this familiar place,

Feeling new appreciation for the

Friendly objects that surround me

And remind me of your life, your love.

Our home embraces me, as you so often did.

Like a small child, I smile and relax.



Reflection:

A life. It combines so many elements. They’re centered here, where I live. My loving memories of you and of loved ones who’ve visited inhabit this house with me, like so many friendly ghosts. The dog and the cats share this space and add the sparkle of their spirits to the daily round of living, eating, breathing, bathing, relaxing, meditating, picking up, sleeping. Each object spins its story at my slightest gaze – where it came from, whose it was, what events involved it, what feelings sprang to life. Each motion of the day recalls past moments, mine or yours – pulling back the bedroom curtains to greet the day, opening the fridge to start preparing breakfasts for everyone, sitting in the family room or living room to relax, visiting your office to meditate, seeing new patients in my office or in the living room. Although life consists of each present moment, it seems immeasurably enriched by these reflective slivers of present moments from the past –providing this moment’s context, adding a multi-hued dimension of many feelings. As I look around and inhale deeply the aura of this beloved place, reliving the stories that imbue each object – furnishings that were chosen thoughtfully and cherished lovingly -- it’s strange to think that when I, like you, have left for the next plane of life, this will just be a house, these will be just random objects, their history vanished – an estate sale.



Future Estate Sale November 8 2009

I look around me at the chairs, the tables,

Framed diplomas, desk drawers filled with objects from our lives,

Each trifling item weighted down with stories,

Burnished with portentous meanings that are only yours and mine.

Each vase and book, each dish and clock carries a unique patina

That reflects our lives and tells our story.

But the drama’s locked within our memories.

Once we’ve both departed, they’ll be disconnected objects once again,

Random pieces, priced to sell, all magic meanings gone – just “stuff.”