Posts Tagged ‘home’

The Taste

January 20, 2017

The Taste

I can see it. I can feel it. I can taste it. A home—it is a home; it should be my home. The home is a welcoming place. Nothing can ever hurt me inside my home. It wants me and my soul. That is the same soul that hungers for peace and quiet, for a way not to be rejected and unloved. I walk by a building. There is an apt. in the basement. The window is made of clear glass. I see a stove, a table with 4 chairs and a tea kettle. All those things should be mine.


























What Home

May 24, 2016

What Home

It was a good question. What is a home? She thought about it, about the dear 4 letter word that made her feel warm and pleasant inside. She didn’t know anymore. At one point it would have been a place to be protected from the world, the daily routine, the routine that went nowhere no matter how hard she tried. Home could be the place to take a shower anytime she wanted, to make herself tea and something good to eat. A home where she could keep a cat, a dog, pets to love and who would love her. But so many unpleasant things had happened. No, she didn’t want to be or sound like a victim. The bottom line is that she was tired. She still wanted a home. The options were slim at best, nil at worst. She finally got it! A home was a place she wouldn’t have to leave ever.




November 1, 2014

I have sinned. I dream of a home I do not have. A home with a robe, a door all my own, a teapot and a blanket to keep me safe and warm. Safe. I haven’t known that feeling in a very long time. I don’t know what it means anymore. Cold weather scares me. It scares me because of the way it makes me feel inside. I am not me. I don’t know who I am. I want to run somewhere but that place does not exist. It is harsh, the harshness of feeling and being unprotected.


June 10, 2014

I remember your eyes. I cannot forget them. Your eyes haunt me after all these years–15 long years without you. You thought you were not important. To me you were a relative, a second aunt. I loved you. I loved being with you. The house you lived in was not perfect, but to both of us, it was home. Our home.


May 24, 2014

Life. Life beneath one’s true potential. To look bad, not the way one is used to looking, to be less than one’s true self. To see others, whoever others are, have what you want and need, what one feels one deserves. To not be able to get used to this lesser life.To not understand why this lesser life must be accepted as the new reality. Not to be able to wear a robe because a robe would mean one has a home, not to feel comfortable anywhere with the rain pounding outside.


January 27, 2014


 Home is a place where I can boil water and make myself a cup of tea when I want to, at the hour that I choose. Home is a room (or rooms) for me to be me. I miss that—all of that. It’s been a long time since I felt I belonged somewhere.





























The Follower

July 13, 2013

The Follower


You followed me wherever it was that I had to go. You never asked questions as to why it was necessary to move. You came with me with a smile on your little face. Some of the new places were rough, others less so. A couple of rooms were in a decent neighborhood. It didn’t matter to you. You made no complaints. If we were together, all was perfect; anyplace was the perfect home.




August 30, 2012


The feeling is deep. It is there. I have to feel it because it is inside me. It is overpowering, like a fire spreading, quickly, very quickly. I remember how it was for another person, someone that I loved very dearly, over 25 years ago. She never recovered from the experience and here I am, going through something very similar. It is horrible, the feeling of not having a home, knowing that perhaps I never will again, not in this country anyway. I think about it day and night, night and day. I want to get rid of it as if it were a bug, one of those pesky bugs and cockroaches that I have been living with for the past 9 months.




The Woman’s Hat

August 11, 2012

The Hat

A crowded public library: She was wearing a large hat, like the ones in a 50s film. It had been raining hard, but the hat was dry. The woman came towards me. She tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and she handed me a piece of paper. This is bad, I said to myself as I looked at it. It isn’t right. The paper was all legal stuff, something about having to appear in court for eviction. I have been evicted ever since I came back to the U.S. I have been foreclosed on again, just like I was in Atlanta in 2005. I don’t have a home. I don’t have anything.






The Other Place

December 13, 2008

Friday, December 12, 2008: This is a home. The other place is not a home. The other place is whatever, but it’s not a house, a place to really stay around. And I’m going back tomorrow.