“I'm going home,” she said.
That was what they said she said.
I don't trust them, but
almost immediately, I believe their words.
In a world where a house
is no longer a home to stay in,
to go home feels like a better choice.
This was before she died.
The first time I heard it,
I didn’t understand.
What did she mean by it?
Later on, I dismissed it as trivial—
a mere delusion of age,
a short-term madness
brought about by loneliness.
I never knew it was a sign of unlove.
Partly, it was my fault.
I admit it: I, too, hesitated.
I am guilty of this sin.
I was too late to understand.
I wish I had known what would happen.
I wish I had been there when she was calling.
I wish I had known that out of all the rest,
for a mere moment,
I became a home.
No comments:
Post a Comment