Looking for Home
It is not my house, but the walls whisper familiar superstitions—
folklore unheard since my great grandmother died.
I have escaped my urban exile and returned to a time vaguely familiar,
like the face of an old friend whose name you cannot remember…
The cool fingers of morning reach past the cracked kitchen sill,
shocking my heart back to its old rhythm.
My mind struggles in the sluggish waters of memory,
trying to decipher the elusive language of my lost self
and I suddenly feel like my grandmother,
who died unable to remember her own name…
All day long, vague images visit—silent specters—
trying to rouse the ancestral spirits who lie asleep in me—
Priscilla the adventurer, who left England for the American wild;
Caroline the mid-wife, who practiced healing arts;
Blanche the survivor, who kept a family alive through depression and war.
Their blood is slumbering in my veins, lulled to a lifeless trance
by the automated routine of this new age…
Outside, the hollyhocks sway to silent music that links my childhood to theirs.
I can almost remember the tune but can no longer translate the words.
As the day wanes through the parlor window’s rippled glass
like a candle burning out into night,
I think of my sons–somewhere in the distance
tucked in their own childhood dreams.
Suddenly, I feel stretched between their world and my grandmother’s.
The fingers of my mind reach out in each direction,
but the bridge I try to become is poorly constructed—
unable to span the void between their future and her past…
The stairs creak with the echoes of a million footsteps,
wandering back through decades to a time lost in shadows.
My feet fit perfectly into the smooth grooves
worn by feet long since resting in their graves.
I follow their well-traveled path, hoping it will lead me
back to that childhood place beyond my reach.
But all the paths I have followed this day simply circle back upon themselves…
I lie awake on a threadbare quilt made by someone else’s grandmother,
listening carefully for the familiar voice of mine.
Instead, I hear the bats stirring in the attic rafters—
not the voices I long for, but familiar ones, bringing a comfortable chill.
They know where they are going in the still summer night,
while I struggle to remember where I’ve been.
Bio: My name is Melissa Anderson, and I am currently recovering from a long period of artistic amnesia. After graduating with a B.A. in English from Monmouth College (Monmouth, IL) and a M.A. in English from Bradley University (Peoria, IL), I refused to move into the “real” world and stayed to teach literature and writing classes at Bradley for a couple of years. I finally exchanged academia for motherhood and domestic life. During these past eight years, I have become a mother to two sons, Noah (age 7) and Elijah (age 2). We have embarked upon the adventure of home schooling together, but in the process, I have lost my identity as a poet. I have only recently begun the journey to rediscover that forgotten part of myself.
Thoughts on Poetry: Poetry is my favorite means of artistic expression because it is truly painting with words to create images that link thought and emotion. Writing poetry has always been a cathartic experience for me, and I have only just recently discovered that if I do not write it I will eventually go insane. It’s a lot cheaper than therapy.