A Story on Blank Pages

Looking back through a book’s blank pages
To find the story we wrote together
I found that day we set off in search of something
On a journey across the desert to kill a man

A town where faces leer inscrutable out of windows
Along streets paved with reflections of gold
We drove fast to escape the blinding sun
And faster when the night closed in behind

Our minds felt the horrors that dwell there
Seeping into the veins of all, now inoculated
Waiting for our arrival—the first dead leaf of autumn
Mourned only by those soon to follow

When we found him, the one we had to kill,
He was waiting impatiently for that final moment
Kneeling poolside at a place where the sun had set
His eyes on the water, watching the reflection of the sky

Going back to Seattle got me thinking about the feeling of home. Nothing makes me appreciate home as much as leaving it for a while. I haven’t been in Denver for very long—just a few months—but it was long enough to make visiting Seattle feel strange, even though I was only there for a weekend. Something like nostalgia, mixed with a longing for the future.

Where is home for you?

Photo by Dick Scholten on Pexels

4 responses to “A Story on Blank Pages”

  1. I moved away from where I call “home” with my mom and new step-dad when I was 3. I spent most weekends and holidays with my grandparents (where I used to live). About 27 years later I moved back (a block away from where all those warm memories are) which was 10 years ago because I missed it so bad. It grew and the neighbors have changed but it’s still the same small village I remember from all those years ago, only now there’s probably about 400-500 people living here and none of my family.

    Liked by 1 person

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