out the stars,
while an old Ford pickup
waits packed and ready.
I stand gazing,
upon my home of
thinking I would be more prepared.
the parent’s house,
and a strange place becomes home.
Though we can always
“go back home.”
It’s never the same,
our stuff doesn’t litter the corners,
our food isn’t in the fridge, and
our favorite mug isn’t in the cabinet,
waiting for morning coffee.
We still call it home,
for it’s littered with memories
of our past.
There are pencil marks on the wall
marking how much we had grown over the years.
Pictures of family get-togethers
and our achievements line the mantle.
Proving that we lived there,
handprints in the concrete steps
forever staking our claim on this home.
I turn to start a new chapter in my life,
looking forward to making a strange place home.
I always know that my heart will be here,
with the pencil marks, the mantle of photos,
and the little handprint on the steps with K.S. and ’95 beside it.
The fireworks drown out the stars,
as an old Ford pickup, drives away.