The first discards are not even noticed -
the packing newspapers, old magazines,
the shift in the definition of local,
and the weather displayed on tiny screens.
One day too soon the memories are blurry
and previous city roads get unravelled.
The radio programmes, heights of doorframes
shift slightly to let you know you’ve travelled.
The last of the old supermarket’s brands,
bags bright in undegradable plastic -
a beaker bought there is suddenly broken
and shattered pieces of glass equal homesick.
You sigh, sweep up and throw them in the bin,
and that’s when the meaning of home sinks in.
I'm still celebrating the mundane, which is what I do, generally. I know, I should get a life! This year, I promise. I'll make a serious attempt. Right after I finish this post.
Anyways, last month, last month? year end, I was talking to my friend, and of course, we started with something very crisp and concrete on the agenda and wound up someplace completely unrelated-fuzzy, history, and homes, and the meanings of both. And something that was said - home is shared history, the stuff you carry around, the interior of the mind and not the interior of the house - must have stuck in ye olde subconscious and produced the above.
An Egyptian kettle and a teamug broke in the meantime, I don't know how they managed to sneak in here. But things have got to a pretty desperate stage if broken mugs and electrical appliances are making it to poems! Must find mundane, but less mundane, stuff to celebrate. Pronto!
What are you celebrating today? :)
The little things are HUGE in my world. And I suspect for most of us.
ReplyDeleteI love that the kettle and the mug snuck into your poem. And home is indeed shared history, and familiar kettles and mugs... And for me, knowing where the light switches are - even in the dark.
'Home is knowing where the light switches are - even in the dark.' That is a poem in itself. Thank you!
DeleteShared history - that is an apt description. Home is never a place. As a military brat, we moved all the time, so no one place is home to me. Except where I live now.
ReplyDeleteSo true! It's never a place. It's a feeling.
DeleteWonderful poem.
ReplyDeleteI shall say I'm celebrating a company move. My drive is now 10 minutes, not 50 minutes. And I have a new chair to sit in on Monday morning. It is the mundane that keeps us rolling along. (and I threw away a lot of crap in my desk - that's a plus for a fresh start)
That's a great way to start the New Year! Congrats on the move!
DeleteWe just packed up a house with 20 years of memories. Gave a lot away, put some in storage (eventually to be given away) and moved a few pieces to the new place. I was surprised by the items my sons wanted, and proud that they found solace with some of the older pieces.
ReplyDeleteWhen you can write about the mundane with such tenderness, well, you shouldn't abandon the subject!
Moving homes, even after 2-3-5 years as we do, is a wrench and a blessing-in-very-hard-to-spot disguise at the time. The thought of a change involving 20 years totally turns my head inside out.
DeleteKudos to you and family for navigating that so successfully! Wish you the making of many precious new memories and happy times in your new home.