Home (Where You Find It)

by Catherine Bouchard

We’ve all written before on what home means to us,

For some trite grade school assignment, We write about how we find it (home) In the cracks of grass through sidewalks, and the laughter of friends So this won’t be new to you - How home is where we find it. And so, We write to praise

Because in this moment, the words flow And we think, this time, we’re really onto something special here. I could write about how home is the house, Familiarity wrapped up in a duvet, Stale warmness after a week away, Jasmine scented essential oils and sunset hues cast onto the walls.

I could write about how home is the city, Sitting outside in Dukes on a sunny day, The blanketing humidity right before rain escapes overcast skies,

Laughing ourselves into the shelter of a I could write about how home is the people,bar to the sounds of synth pop.

Dropping quips to see the hint of a smile smile break their faces,

Rooting ourselves into summer dappled grass,

‘Because in this moment, the words flow And we think, this time, we’re really onto something special here.’

Hours carried away on the lilt of anecdote #37. And so you see, this is the same narcissistic pretention that bonds us, Because I have written these things for you Shown that I too know what it means to find home, And that I’m just like you, reader, I have felt loved and accepted and welcome. And so you see, this is the same narcissistic pretention that bonds us, Because I have written these things for you Shown that I too know what it means to find home, And that I’m just like you, reader, I have felt loved and accepted and welcome.