Like putting on a pair
Of favorite, worn, sneakers,
It is so good to be back!
I've missed
The old neighborhood,
The supportive
And loving
Friends,
The tree lined
Streets,
The smells
Of immigrant meals
Wafting
On the summer breeze,
The music of young laughter
From the nearby playground.
This is where I come from,
Where I belong;
It is where
I will always
Return
When the world outside
Allows me.
And no matter how long
Since I last was here,
It's
Welcome back,
They always seem to say,
Welcome home,
Our daughter!
Yes, for some of us, returning to the old neighborhood can be a very positive thing, especially of old friends and acquaintances are still around. As for my parents welcoming me the summer that my house was rented out and I was between jobs, my mother graciously accepted me so that I didn't have to get an apartment, but my father resented my being there. For the most part, they welcomed me at family gatherings as often as I get there. But they moved a lot, even in retirement, so family and friend linkages changed. I wasn't returning to a familiar neighborhood when I came to see them.
You are so fortunate to have parents that are so understanding. And such a nice poem about it.
The only parts of my hometown that welcome me are the new parts that were not there in the days of my youth. Thank God for change, and growth, and new faces working to make a better place out of my old memories. Even the four houses that I lived in are all gone, just like most of my friends. The moving finger writes, and, having writ moves on. My home is where my heart is, and that is with friends.
Dear Rebecca, Enjoy that feeling of going back home for as long as you can. Like the rest of the folks commented mentioned, for most of us going home just is not the same. My old home is pretty scary, it's run down and full of gangs. Then I used to live in Texas and my daughters grew up there. Our country cottage was flattened to make way for new condos.So now i say, "Home is where I hang my hat, I make the best of where I'm at." Enjoyed your poem! John Michael
This is not a drill. The attack on Pearl. They were the ghost planes of the night, deadly, illusive, sharp-clawed Black Cats. The Memoirs of ARM H.P. Lawrence, a Pearl Harbor survivor, Black Cat, and decorated war veteran.
Join me as we travel together on the road called "Aging." I will be sharing my personal experiences with you and offer ideas on how we can better navigate the complex byways of our older years. Grief, healing, generations, ancestors, and more.
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You are so fortunate to have parents that are so understanding. And such a nice poem about it.
Ron