The Scent of Home---Extended

The Scent of Home

Walking thru a maze of roads
in search of my childhood home that lived in memory
I did not realize finally when I reached and stood where I did
that it was the same misty road, now lost in traffic
and the same humble house now too small to be known to my sight
until the same morning scent shook my senses and I looked,
There it was.  I was standing sharp on the other side of the road, facing it right in front of me.

That, my home, and I the dweller once, were brought there.

A home does speak like an animal abandoned.

My home spoke.

I spoke of bruises and the scars I carried, and my home listened.

It listened, but did not smile.

My home spoke too of broken down walls, bricks that could not stand, and the mortar that had given way and left huge gaps where once were walls and door-frames.

There were ruptures we saw, but could not mend.

I stood there, guilty and callous,

Thinking of some defence, and I knew how bad I was at it, when required to do so in the face of defeat.

Reproach and cold sarcasm was what I expected

in that silence between me and my home.

My home had no words.

I could feel it breathe,

And me standing there

Away on the other side, letting the indifferent traffic divide us, not reaching out for what we needed.

The five odd minutes I spent waiting for the traffic to cease were

 as long as the life-time dividing us.

And all that had held me together came undone like stitches that could no longer hold.

It was a wave that rose and fell

And hurled me undone at the feet of my home.