Homegoing

Home is the late August heat, tussling the nest of my hair.

The rhythmic thumping of a basketball

Weaving around my little brother in our driveway.

My dog, Bodi, laying under the shade

Of our Japanese Maple, and the bits of green fresh cut grass

Tangling in his damp black fur. My father standing

In the kitchen, cutting the tomatoes mom and I planted

At the end of last spring, and I think of the time

We mistook poison ivy for weeds

And wore socks on our hands for a week.

My younger sister chatting on the phone with her friend

In a T-shirt that once belonged to me

Before she borrowed it so many times that it became hers.

Mom returning from an evening run and asking dad how long til dinner.

Home is exactly as I left it before I went to school.

If I’m being honest, I don’t like coming home,

Reminded that time passes when you’re not watching

Clock hands orbit in full rotations.

Pulling into the driveway

And mourning an untouched basketball hoop

Because a buzzcut and bitter tone blanket my brother’s personality.

Opening the backdoor, expecting Bodi

To wag his tail and bark with excitement,

Even though I know his collar now decorates our mantle.

Conversing with my parents, and hearing

“You didn’t know that?” like watching the final episode

After only seeing the pilot.

Seeing my sister on school breaks

Like I’m a distant cousin catching up at Christmas.

An unpacking visitor in my own house,

And my sister rolls her eyes when I ask

How to work the new television

Or what happened to the best friend she no longer talks about.

I study the rooms of my house

To see that nothing really changed.

The staircase where my sister and I pretended to be princesses

Still spirals to the second floor, the screen door

Still shakes and creaks when swung open, and the Japanese Maple

Still sways to the breeze.

It’s still the same house.

I study the rooms of my house

To find I’m not the same person who flew the nest,

My family forgets to set my seat at the table,

And the sister shaped hole fills in over time.

My mother will plant tomatoes by herself,

And my father will cook dinner for a family of four.

I don’t like coming and feeling like it’s no longer my home.