I don’t remember

Walking to the center of the high bridge

I do remember

Thinking about the current’s clarion call

I don’t remember

Pondering the great mystery

I do remember

Searching for a way to elude capture when pain hunted me

I don’t remember

Sending up one more prayer, asking for help one last time

I do remember

Conjuring in image in my mind: a sacred place remaining hidden

I don’t remember

Calling up the number on my phone and asking to visit

I do remember

Telling myself I was going home to the bedroom with the seashell lamps.

I don’t remember

Walking in the door, two miles from the bridge

I do remember

The smell of brass coating my hands- knocker, key, lock, door knob, door knob

And I don’t even remember leaving,

But I do remember the part where I came home.

Photo by William Santos on Unsplash

Thank you for reading this narrative about coming home.

My most recently published piece:

…BRD…

I write poetry, prose, and personal pieces. All images are mine unless indicated otherwise. Feel free to leave feedback on my work anytime; I hope you enjoy.

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