They get smaller the longer you inhabit them:
Cities, towns, neighborhoods; homes,
Like clothes to grow out of and throw away,
Or else to be clung to again and again
lest they wear through completely.
If this is true then my darling Olympia
Has old, gaping holes ripped into its knees,
Patches nursing its elbows
And a droopy, fraying collar
Stretched over heads too many times.
But I will always rummage through my closet,
Unravel the dark corners of dressers,
Dig through the forgotten boxes of the garage
in a panic to find the threads of my city once again.
I will let its fabric of memory fall loosely
Over my head and onto my shoulders
Just so I can breathe in the smell
Of coffee and pine trees, muddled together.
I’ll close my eyes and hear
The rain drumming with gentle, constant fingertips
As if it will just go on polishing my forehead forever.
I will examine the dark, dried stains
On Olympia’s sleeves, down its chest, under its arms,
And remember walking barefoot through silent cul-de-sacs
On summer nights, the pavement still warm under our heels.
I’ll feel the chill of buying ice cream and sitting
In the Safeway parking lot to eat it, blasting sad, indie music
And praying (always in vain) that we would not run into anyone we knew.
I will feel the softness of the fabric,
So delicately gentle against my skin it frightens me,
And remember how songbirds sound singing
From those perfectly green Washington trees
As the clouds begin to clear in the early morning
And we drive past the rocky beaches, creaking sail boats,
And granola families with flowing skirts and flowery babies.
I will run my fingers along its solid hems
That somehow still hold each thread of this marvelous garment together,
And I’ll remember the curve of every road,
every pothole and street sign we passed,
The color of the houses down every driveway
And each hidden park or misty lookout point along the way.
I’ll take my Olympia and hold it up tight against me,
sighing my life back into its seams.
Take it, can you feel that?
Home.