As I sit in this same old blue van explaining to my husband her many quirks,
I have to stop and look out the window and realize where I am.
I’m home. As far as they eye can see. It’s home. But not a home to me.
The hills go on forever dotted here and there with silos and crumbling barns.
I see the bails of hay wrapped tight for the winter and it’s home.
It’s just home to me anymore.
These hills, this air, those trees covered in frost and snow.
I knew them well, and they were mine. They used to be my home.
Now instead I’m paraded around from family to family hugged, and patted, and loved,
But not free. This home no longer belongs to me.
I’m like a pony at the state fair. They let me trot, they pet and feed me,
But I don’t belong to them and I don’t belong here.
Instead of running free, I’m tortured being forced to see
The hills and fields still calling me
But they aren’t for me. It’s not a home to me.
I’m locked safely in my pen, allowed to strut around in front of them
A couple times a year.
I feel special, I feel wanted and appreciated if only for a while,
But I see those hills and know this is how life is supposed to be for me
And yet I’ll never again get to be that free.
I hate this land it’s reminders, it’s very presence, it’s mocking freedom.
I am staring out my little window, nose pressing against the glass
And shaking with rage.
I wish that freedom never existed.
I wish I had never known that land.
I wish I’d never have to see it again.
But it’s home, and though it isn’t mine anymore
It’ll always be home, and though I’ll never be that free again
At least I have my memories, no matter how they haunt me.
So next time I’ll come and press my nose against the glass
And seethe with red hot anger at all I lost,
But somewhere deep inside I’ll know
Mine or not?
It’s used to be.
I wouldn’t want to forget that.
Would I really want to forget that?