poetrybyheart.me

Duchess Goldblatt writes, “Home is a person. If you are lucky, home is yourself.”

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A few years ago I moved from a three-story townhouse I shared with my former husband to a two bedroom apartment just big enough for me. I carefully selected furniture that had accompanied me in two previous moves to begin another incarnation of my life.

I brought two blue glass bottles and tiny figurines that were my mother’s before I was born. I brought amber glass hurricane lamps that were a wedding gift to my first husband and me. I brought a tall, narrow teak bookcase that was my second husband’s which I had used for my books in our townhouse. I brought a Victorian glass-topped table with intricately carved wood beneath the glass. This came from my grandmother’s house in Alabama and sat in her parlor. I brought a desk that was my son’s in high school. I brought a picture of a cowboy riding on a dusty road that reminded me of my father who was from Texas. The things I brought with me represented every place I have ever lived. They tell me stories. They encompass my history. When I return home from an hour of running errands or a two-week trip, I put my key in the lock, open the door and breathe in the essence of home.