These Hazy Days

Remembrances of Home

this friday night's a blue-lit one
with hints of indigo,
and the dampened roads resemble paintings
in the streetlights' amber glow.

I've just dropped my drunk friends
off at their respective homes
and for some reason now I'm feeling lost
as my windshield wipers groan.

I don't want to go back yet;
the lights at my house are off.
I have dishes to clean and laundry to do
and I still need a tablecloth.

when I take the next left turn,
my darkened home comes into view.
I go left again and drive away, hoping
to find somewhere—anywhere—new.

before I know it I'm on the highway,
searching for exit 98.
I see it and take it to my old town
till I find my parents' place.

when I slow down to a gentle
stop, I open my car door.
I stand in the street, wanting to cry.
should I go in? I'm not sure.

the lampposts here look like full moons,
and the trees are starting to blush.
in the air is quiet reverence;
the wind tells me softly, hush.

I almost feel like a kid again,
but to those times I can't return.
old memories come, but they're hot to the touch.
why does nostalgia burn?

I remember the chair I claimed as my own
one day in the dining room:
I wrote DON'T SIT all over the seat
in a crayon called cadet blue.

once on my bedroom carpet
I tried to draw my cat.
I used a violet Sharpie pen,
and my parents hated that.

another time I finished my milk
and set my mason jar on the table.
later that night my elbow bumped it—
I tried to catch it but wasn't able.

glass was dashed across the floor,
and I screamed for my dad to see.
he ran to me and glass slid into his foot
two whole centimeters, or three.
I'm happy he forgave me.

great. now there are tears in my eyes.
god, I wish I wasn't crying.
if ever I say I don't miss my youth,
I'm probably just lying.