I stopped going home long time ago…
Gradually. Unexpectedly.
It started when I sailed away from the coast of the Ionians
and I waived a farewell to the vine yards and the olive groves.
When I abandoned the undeserved inheritance of my grandfather.
A house full of memories, Mediterranean light
cold marble on the floor and warm feelings, memories, laughter
and an old, almost ancient, bending pine tree in the backyard
that painstakingly still stands there.
I could not take away any of these;
All I took was two wooden boxes
full of black and white pictures, hand written notes
and some yellow pollen from the pine tree.
«Όπου γης και πατρίς»
«On whichever land (you stand) it is your homeland»
I kept repeating this to myself to convince me
with nostalgia being an unbearable weight.
And then resentment came uninvited
it started building walls and breaking down promises.
And then I moved even further from home
Oh, what an irony:
Now that I own the place I call home!
My home has become a place full of muted laughter
silent cries of «Daddy is home!»
A garden of withered hands, dried out fingers
full of empty embraces and undelivered kisses
full of passerbys and ephemeral joys.
A floor, a ceiling, a loft, walls and a river in the middle.
Going home is a tough decision.
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