I cannot go home. There isn't money, inclination, time.
Another has filled the rooms with their writing and dogs.
Keep walking.
I like living on a street named for a captain that led a populist coup
that turned into a revolution.
He chose 2 children over office, died young.
I will die old - it's too late for anything else.
Grief and loss are on both sides of the ocean.
Happiness too, if you count the walking,
talking to animals, admiring old trees.
These are moments of brightness,
inside places
reached through grief and joy.
I employ my heart in the hard work
of listening.
My mind remains restless.
Home isn't in the heart or mind.
I could look for it.
I've sturdy shoes, health, new glasses.
I'm schooled in what passes as home but isn't.
I've had to keep moving, state to state, country to country,
I chose two cats for the journey, and a husband.
They died and I lived.
Keep walking.
