It’s not a question of religious or moral values. Simply, how could one loathe one’s creation?

I went down to see my mother and sisters in their new house Saturday night. I didn’t expect much, didn’t expect to be moved, and surely not to the point that I’d change my mind and decide to come live with them. (To give a bit of background information, my mom and sisters moved into a two bed/two bath nearly two weeks ago, and I didn’t harbor enough desire to go see it until, well, Saturday, when my excuses ran dry. They live with her boyfriend. Prior to the move, I asked her to let me stay in her room, as the “kids” room would be too small for three, but she said “no”, so I was left at my grandparents’, with whom we had been living up until that time.) And I wasn’t. Moved, I mean. I walked in and sat down the couch opposite my thirteen-year-old sister (who smokes regularly, come to find out; she begged my mom for two cigarettes as she was leaving) and her sixteen-year-old boyfriend, James. I could tell they wanted me to feel I was at home, but I couldn’t. The atmosphere was alien. She (Mom) ran about getting things together for dinner, popped the macaroni in the oven, jabbered about losing her job (she’d lost it earlier the same day), then her face puckered and she gave me a hug and shed a few tears. When I asked how things were otherwise: “Oh, they’re great otherwise. Greg said I can work with him for now.”Dinner proved an uncomfortable event. I quit eating halfway through, afraid I would choke if I kept shoveling it down. We watched TV, went to McDonald’s in his truck, then returned.

Standing in their kitchen under the unflattering yellow light, I thought: “The changes we’ve been subject to…they’re irrevocable. Mom isn’t your mom anymore, and your sisters are no longer your sisters. These people are foreign; they’ve moved on. This is the first step toward adulthood.”

I can’t say I feel at home, anywhere. Right now I’m focused on diagnosing my psychological issues, writing, and college. Not an inch of me remains to worry about being “at home”, because one can’t be at home where no home exists.

However, I did finish NaPo with a whopping sixty-three poems, having forged several breakthroughs during the process. Wrote three more today, one of which I’m very fond. These are my releases: writing, love. I needn’t forget.

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