I remember home fondly as the place I go
To be home. The back yard encroaching
On the house or the front yard
Full of dead leaves to take home
From the drizzle to Mother. I was home
Eighteen years. The town fish
Is the sockeye salmon. The town flower
Is a rain puddle, which sounds shallow
Though it is merely deep and soggy.
A NorthWesterner can be soggy
Sincerely, can like the rain sincerely.
When I go back home I drive through Snoqualmie
There is off I-90 in Snoqualmie a waterfall, so I
Go tree tree tree fall off the top
Which is not too far
On account of the trees.
Then it goes tree tree tree
Deer, goodbye deer. You never forget
How to be home when you’re trapped at home.
It’s not like riding a bike which I don’t know how to do.
The upper floor is the dream state
In case the first floor is too real. I live now
In a cold house, but it is not the same as my home
But it is my house. The home’s joy is me
Which sounds egotistical
Though it is fact. It goes
Bipolar, bipolar, anxious, depressed,
“Medication we beseech thee, rise and give us happiness”
Is how we might sound if we talked about it.
Night is thirty six hours long at home.
We are people who want to kill the sky for being so dark
“what do we do?” is the family motto. But there are days
When we light a fire, light
Is everywhere and words are spoken
By all of us that are true. When we speak truth
You know we are broken. Let us all be broken
Let us all fix each other best we can.
Melina Hughes has spent her entire life in the Pacific Northwest. She grew up in Issaquah, WA, and now resides in Portland, OR. She earned B.A. in economics from Whitman College and a master’s degree in book publishing from Portland State University. In typical NW fashion she loves drinking too much coffee, walking through the trees, reading on a gray day, and listening to the rain fall. She works as a freelance writer and book publicist.