3 Months 3 Bags
From September 3
All of my life in three little bags
Thousands of miles. Ninety days. This was my world.
Back in New Haven, they remind me of how far I’ve gone, how far I’ve come, how much as changed.
On the floor of my apartment, they are tiny. Seemingly inconsequential. They are dwarfed by shelves of books, games, and movies. A twenty-seven inch TV and red Poang chair. All of this stuff; my accumulated wealth from twenty-eight years seems foreign to me.
Whose apartment is this? Who do these things belong to?
Their owner –the former occupant- is gone.
It is weird . . . feeling like a stranger in your own home.
WHERE is home?
For that matter,
WHAT is home?
Thousands of miles. Ninety days. This was my world.
Back in New Haven, they remind me of how far I’ve gone, how far I’ve come, how much as changed.
On the floor of my apartment, they are tiny. Seemingly inconsequential. They are dwarfed by shelves of books, games, and movies. A twenty-seven inch TV and red Poang chair. All of this stuff; my accumulated wealth from twenty-eight years seems foreign to me.
Whose apartment is this? Who do these things belong to?
Their owner –the former occupant- is gone.
It is weird . . . feeling like a stranger in your own home.
WHERE is home?
For that matter,
WHAT is home?
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