Better Days

Being home is lying between childhood and adulthood in night sweat and sheets; it is a prolonged adolescence, etched out in films, the pink of my sheets, hung candy-canes, the blocks where I grew, granted, gave and took back. It is the place where I tugged my legs beneath a winter sled, kissed on stoops, danced inside, ate smores by the dozens, harbored barbies, blended to the wind. It is the place that holds my sighs, chartered my tears, tempted my senses to fight and, finally, to forgive. Being home is my height of melancholy. A sort of sad, but savory, sight.