born

coming back to live where I was born 

Coming back to live where I was born is different from visiting your old house   you inhabit your life but there are ghost threads like scarlet shoots through a suit   maybe a snowsuit you wore on west 10th  only now you drive by and you have groceries in your car but you feel that suit, the itch the sweat of it as you pulled your toboggan  or the sound of a young student in the apartment across from you  fumbling on keys as she learns to play piano  and for a moment you are also fumbling with basic notes desperate to get one bar as perfect as Mozart    it is in the air    the wet peninsula air  the way it swirls close to the coast in the morning    the way it smells and rolls in  and the same foghorns sounding deep in the belly of English Bay    the ships in the bay are like my oceanic grandfathers  I walk beside them,  down low near the water’s edge

they haven’t moved in over 40 years

ever red against blue, ever anchored.

2 Comments

Filed under Non-fiction

2 responses to “born

  1. Gorgeous! I remember going back to the big, brick two-story house where I was born and lived until I was five. It was such a huge house, large yard, imposing–in my memory. But it truth it was tiny–tiny house, tiny yard–nothing imposing, not even brick.

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