1.
Lifting the lid, she
said,
"Bonbons for my
girls";
ghosts in her German
accent
floating about.
"Dollhouse
table," my sister declared.
"A sofa, and this
chair."
Collecting the wrapping
paper,
inhaling flowery perfume, I
imagined
Granny's house in London.
2.
The drifting dessert
sand, Mother removes
from her gravestone
once a year.
I pull out the suitcase
waiting
in the boidem, dust it off.
My diary packed, small
can-openers,
some scarves—waving good-bye,
I moved to another country.
3.
On snowy days, I look to the East—
my hair as grey as Granny's
on her visits long ago—and think
of the Desert and the
Forty Years,
asking, Where is Home?
The answer to Where is Home? is in the boidem of your soul, where you will find the faux-leather lunchbox of a five-year old with the most endearing open bite.
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