Sunday, February 20, 2011

And just for the record

I am home

This is how it begins. Again. You pick up the pieces. Bit by bit. Residue. Detritus. Clothes, a sock thrown here, a pile of laundry neglected for weeks. You take down the dirty sheet covering the window and let some light in. Bills. Papers. Old letters. Photographs. Fathers Mothers children past echoes. Am I that man across the street...60 miles down south? Piles. Put them all into piles. Sort. Begin again. Time to clean. Deep breaths. Make some tea. Look around. You are no longer underwater. Open your eyes. What do you see? A mess? Or home? Or home. Children. Pues que descanses cariƱo. Again. Morning.