in winter, Evora

it’s more damp than cold

laboring breaths of air too thick

sleep, deep, a clammy sweating

waking in a not too early morn

that’s overly dark, echoing drops 

pooling water on tile darkening 

streaks on the walls from the window 

home

tried it on today, home, the 

word, the ideal

is it Texas, place of my birth, my

coming of age, Where the hours grew to

years then deaths, Where I played 

in dirt and dreamt, fought to be

is it northwest Where my

father remarried resettled, found

new family, new life

is home a place, Where blood resides

fixed Where things are stored

transient Where I lay my head at night

Where I’m going

Where I’ve just left 

is it Where I’m from

Where I live now

home seems a memory 

not yet come forth

beautiful girl, love your dress

 

but….I am 
            my age
we all
           age

skin crepes 

jowls appear 

weight comes

          or goes 

sight …

           hearing diminish

hair grays

I cannot regret

           the hours 

           the losses

           the traumas

           the joys

           and love

things what got me here

descriptors Out of Order

Independent 

Autonomous

Self-sufficient 

Self-actualizing

Self-efficacy 

Slow to know

I give; hopes and dreams 

Labels; closed off, walls, no trust

I give; challenges

Labels; negative

No one is entitled to your trauma 

a thing foreign

There are bells here in Evora, the little town where I live in the east of Portugal. Bells that remind me of the trains I heard back home. 

Home. A thing foreign to my tongue, a concept that escapes me.

Home was never the house I grew up in or the house by the lake that straddled Texas and Oklahoma that my grandparents expanded from a one room cabin. Home was never the dwellings or house I shared with my husband of sixteen years, the one I tried everything to hold on to when we parted ways. Home is not my father's house by the lake in the too far north of the northwest.

Though I think of these places fondly, if I ever thought a place Home, it was the little house on Loree where my girls had a yard for nine years. Where they met the neighboring pups at the fence. Where one barked at the rumble of cars passing and the other sat still in the grass, lording over her domain. 

Perhaps Home is where we three all grew old, that place where my loves last breaths were drawn, where life took a turn and I chose to leave.

In my little town of Evora, I surround myself with nature and color, create days of health and and constantly discover beauty in the cobbled streets I trespass. Still, I wonder if I'll ever find Home  - again?Or if I had it at one point and didn't know.

"home, where my love lies waiting silently for me..." ~ Homeward Bound, Simon and Garfunkel