I’m back in my mother’s childhood home,
etching it through her memory–burdened eyes
this time, I try to fit all her faded, faraway stories
in their puzzle spaces
right at the door, Grandma and her eager, impatient house
full of the shy ghosts, extend to meet me,
calling out, child, come in
blend with the cozy, ancient shadows
and soft, lingering smokes.
I perform my rituals—
stumble on faded photographs, coax out their stories
caress Grandfather’s broad bookshelf
a relic that has always been here
feel for the emptiness of lost books
hunt for the ones left behind, cradle
their sepia–coloured pages,closer
remnants of a late grandfather I never met
all I have left of him is this hunger
for words and language
I tiptoe through the corridors, careful not to interrupt
the slumber of ghosts in the adjacent rooms
spill onto the backyard and
drink cool water from the àmù* that hasn’t moved
from its nook behind the door / heal.
Home is where you know (of) the ghosts and
everything is older than you and belongs.
