Familyhood

HOME it says. I, too, am afraid of getting there. I do not call it my home at all times, because of the love I keep somewhere else. But now, that I do, it is a home where I do not want to go. There will be the joy that I for so long have been longing for and there will be him that shreads his anxiety at most places he kept his body. There is a hole, which we are unable to fill. Now and again, he do let us in, only breafly, carefully without full trust.


As I am carried by the train, iron wheels under me, the text is staring at me. Eight years ago, we all would have said ”Home, sweet home” with that big smile upon our faces. My teeth were, as they are always at that age, big and white. At some places along the row of teeth, an unknown amount of them were missing. I may have sighed along with them, not truly understanding the luck and happiness we were all possessers of. Unable to know, what was lying ahead of us. Sharp edges.


Now though, HOME is something not situated in one place, but in different houses, even cities. They have moved away, soon there will be no physical trace of our old weariness. Not belonging to us, anyway. The house will stand there, soon filled with other's happiness and sorrow. Our bodies resting at other places, visible lines drawed between them, as to never forget who we are.


And that our love will never cease to exist.