Caroline apologizes for the lack of a real post (it’s a busy time for teachers!) but she sent us a poem she wrote.

 

home is where the time is

in lepoard-print journals and crushed shoeboxes

photographs with orange spots (water damage from the flood)

I smooth the creases and my father says, “I don’t remember that.”

or, “were we on vacation?”

 

home is where the Times is.

pieces of yesterday, scattered sections of weeks ago–

a slice of October still sits in the living room.

seasoned with eraser crumbs (crossword abandoned.)

 

I read the Sunday Styles

in my church clothes (jeans are O.K.)

and later with my mother under the Costco blanket.

 

We forget the wine in the freezer

Accidentally preserving something that improves with age.

 

home is home to the books we tried to write

planned but not yet penned.

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