Home. Not Home

You spent thirty years here,
married, had children, houses,
somewhere you have photographs,
hundreds of them, maybe thousands.

You have friends, good friends
that even now, four years gone,
stay in touch, share their hearts,
care.

And yet now, it is no longer home,
but a black and white photograph,
a remembrance, lacking color
and life.

Visiting
is like walking through a Bogart movie,
all steam and mystery,
a period piece, something lost,
familiar,
not quote forgotten,
not quite real.

About this poem

I am in Virginia as I write this. I came down to be with my 15 year old son over his homecoming weekend and to just spend time with him. Saturday we wandered around downtown Roanoke, where I worked and lived for over 30 years.

As the weekend has gone by, I have run into so many people I knew from my time here. Kids I used to direct music for, now all grown up with kids of their own,. people I went to church with, people who remain friends by way of facebook. People I worked with. It’s been a real joy.

But it’s also been a little surreal. Because despite all the years here in the Roanoke Valley, it is no longer home. It’s like Richmond, where I grew up – a place I came from, a place that for all the wonderful people and time and memories, is no longer home.

The picture is a photograph of a photograph. My son and I went to the O Winston Link museum yesterday. O Winston Link is a famous photographer of all things steam train,. An amazing photographer who staged and captured images of a time long gone. Few of his photographs (all of which are wonderful) were “captured”. They were all staged, set up and elaborately lighted. Art really. But the leave you feeling like he captured not just an image, but a time.

Tom