It’s strange being back here,
Back home.
In a place where I scan the faces of people that I meet,
Wondering if I knew them,
Or went to school with one of their daughters or sons.
In a place where people know my parents,
My maiden name,
The house I grew up in.
It is a kind of knowing, a surrounding
That is familiar,
Circular, tight around me.
And these echoes of the past wash up at my feet
like debris from the tide.
I am not sure if I ready for it yet,
This being known.
#3
elisabeth pike 