Home is where beds are made and butter is added to toast. On a cold afternoon you can float room to room like a ghost. Take the crèche out and argue about who gets to set up the kings. And I know that it’s home because that’s where the stereo sings “I’ve got dreams to remember.” But not even home can be with you forever. It’s Christmastime and the plane flies me over white hills to a town in a dream, where the sky is frozen and still, and a room (that’s not mine but it’s just like I left it before, with the wax from the candles all dusty and locks on the door) where I held you so tenderly, and where in summer I opened your letter to me. I’m standing where we knelt and a miracle mile now borders it, but if I turn my back and look at the field I don’t even notice it for a second. There’s a tangle of greenery where winter scenery ends. And I hear that song sometimes and imagine us much more than friends - like if
we stayed in this town, bought the first house that
went up on sale, and how each
Christmastime would bring
inlaws and snowdays and
holiday mail. Your dad says
you’re living in Georgia
since last September.
Well, “I’ve got dreams to remember.” I’ve got dreams to
remember. Oh Sara, come back
to New Hampshire. We’ll stay here fo