My mom keeps asking me to come home,
Begs me to think real hard about it.
She thinks about her island house,
But that’s not what I envision when she says « home ».
I see the forest and the hills,
The wolves, the bears, and the deer,
High up in the Appalachians or down below,
Near a river or a small lake that I don\'t know.
Virginia, Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky,
People with their sweet southern accent,
My husband in an old shirt and dirty jeans,
Painting our house blue because he knows that’s my thing.
Gentle mornings on the swing,
In the evening a beer on the porch,
An ancient wooden house smelling like wine,
And my good man resting on a creaky bench.
Cicadas, the smell of leaves, no more pills,
Crows, cooking and candy bars,
Late-night hangouts and walks in the rain,
Feeling the fresh air through shot lungs,
And when the time will come, children playing in the worn-out garden.
Heaven’s something you can’t really name,
And I know only the lucky ones get to see it,
That’s why until I die I’ll keep dreaming of it.
Sometimes, I do imagine a blue house in the Appalachians with you.