We descend over the city long after nightfall
I look for her eyes in the lights below
I think perhaps I can spot them
                                      if I look closely
I am faster through the airport than the old folks and the children
Watch for my bags with a heart beating through my chest
Smile at the dogs on duty  
And oh what joy
She is not a dream
                                      but flesh and blood and world in a pinpoint
She is just as I have left her
The only soul who has ever been beautiful under fluorescent white
The only soul who has ever drawn joy from me in the airport
And oh what joy
She is not a dream
                                      She is mine

I was told that there is a house with many rooms in our Father’s New Haven, and when I first heard this, my mind went to an all-inclusive five star hotel, an award winning complex, a beautifully designed block of compartments, one for each of us. A hotel big enough for all of us to have our own en-suite space, with an optional do not disturb on the door, so we could choose when to mingle in the hall ways and when to order 24 hour room service to avoid losing the peace of our own space, a place where you’d rave about the quality of the towels and the silent, unnoticed staff who offer a crisp laundry service and make our beds when our backs are turned, the very best in luxury soaps and shampoos, a walk-in steaming shower, a XXL hot bath, a private pool, perfectly adjusted air con followed by a top of the range kettle that works every time and perfectly complements the décor beside complimentary aromatic teas and potent coffees, with refrigerated fresh milk for those who take it, and the offer of an all-paid-for minibar complete with Toblerones and miniatures, a king sized bed and pillows to match, in front of an oversized all channel TV offering the back catalogue you’ve always dreamed of and to top it all, sound proofed windows and walls so you won’t notice the Pentecostals next door.

Then I looked again, and I saw I was wrong – that this is not an access by key-card hotel, it is our Father’s house. This is our inter-generational family home with many family rooms to explore, communal space where we can all feast and laugh – a piano in the corner, carafes of wine, baskets of warm bread and help-yourself fruit bowls in every direction, deep suites of sofas, full of the hum of long-separated family reunited. A home which offers a warm embrace to all; the fragrance of every-season gardens, the music of a gentle brook and bird song suggestive of dawn all day.

This is a massive mansion which we will never reach the end of, no matter how long our eternity. This is a place to call our forever family home.

I burn my hands washing dishes at home.
Alone, it is lukewarm, cold at best --
So I will eat cake until I am sick.

Day by day I find myself drowning in feelings I cannot put my finger on,
Not like a carefree momentum-fueled skater basking in wind echoing off the dips of concrete;
Rather a feeble insect surfing in the linoleum of a running sink, barely missing the drain with each wave.
Albeit, I am the one turning the faucet. If only I would turn it off.

I am surrounded by a pool of my tears.
Familiar, slow, melodies travel through my nerve endings.
The memories are all I can feel in my frail, numb body.
Why am I shaking again?
Is it because I miss the validation I got from my teachers in kindergarten?
Or the unfinished self-portrait in front of me that reminds me too much of my insufficiency?
Perhaps the unbearable gaze of ones who only have love to spare? Love is enough…right?

I’m glancing all over my enclosure, for anything to distract from the thoughts caving in on me.
My eyes fixate on the photo strips on the wall,
My other home grinning back at me.
Half the world but only a text away.
Why can’t I do it?
They will ask how I am. I can’t tell them,
That I have to go back.
I cannot live in this silent house no longer.
Please set me free,
To where I really belong.

We live alone, trying to find comfort in this nursing home—
because we can’t live with our families, with our own children.

We haven’t had a real family in so long,
not one we could truly call ours.

The only ones who need us now are the others like us,
sitting in the hall, staring at us like we’re mirrors.

Now we have formed a chorus to sing some stupid song,
proving that we are not socially incapacitated.
A piano gasps its tinny chords, half-deaf and wheezing,
but we sing anyway. What else is left to do?

Soon, we’ll finish singing,
and the caregiver will lead us to the cafeteria
to drink stewed fruit drink.

We’ll keep living, keep holding ourselves together,
even if we’re lonely, abandoned, forgotten.

My mother loves me.
She watches me from the other side, happy as I sing.
After the performance, she’ll buy me a cup of ice cream.

I’m still alive. I still want to be loved.

My son was killed, and I was left with no one.

I hold sheet music in my hands, but I’m not singing—
just standing here on the side, keeping my friends company,
so they don’t feel hurt.

I think Kathy is an idiot.
Don’t know what to do about that.

I said to your Dad “I want a busy house”.

A home where we may have slept in on a weekday, then we’re rushing to grab a bite of toast before we’re stuck in traffic trying to get you to school on time.

A home where the laundry doesn’t always get done straight away and when it does we have sock fights and pray that the dog doesn’t end up going back to the vets to rescue one of the pair.

A home where you’ll try to eat what you can from your plate and we won’t mind if you snack later in the day. In fact we won’t mind if you wake us up to go on a midnight feast adventure in the middle of the night.

A home where you’ll be happy and grow up and maybe one day want to call your own.

I said to your Dad “I don’t want a busy house, I want a busy home”.