Going Home by Brooke Nind

I. New Hampshire, Fall
I return breathless. The leaves are already turning,
their corners folding up and crinkling away.
I also feel like I’m in free fall.
There are 5,000 miles on my car odometer
that weren’t there before, but now I am back here.
Driving with California plates in New Hampshire
makes me more hesitant to speed.
If I go slower, I’ll have more time
to glance at the trees, their sharp greens blending
into murky golds and reds.
The people here will always rotate.
I feel like I’m watching my life happen from faraway,
the slow drizzle of maple syrup onto pancakes,
another sunset watched through a window
as darkness creeps up faster.

II. California, Late Summer
Home is a museum with rotating exhibits.
Everything feels brighter through the glare of a glass barrier.
I drive my best friend from place
to place, referencing street names she won’t remember.
I sleep in a large bed with a thick mattress
and sleep the worst I have in months.
Maybe it’s the heat, and the way it disappears
in the middle of the night. I wake up with cold feet
and burrow deeper into the blankets, think about leaving
again. I cry for hours and run up to the park
because it is the only place to run.
I think of every time the plane has touched down here,
I feel both relief and my stomach sinking.
I always know I will return but I never know when.
I sit at the dinner table with my knees up
and listen to my parents, think a bit more.

III. Washington, DC, Early Summer
I have been here before and even after thinking more,
I believe I will be back here again.
I walk almost everywhere alone—to work,
to cafes, to the gym, to museums, across town,
often with my head down. This was not always the case.
I walk loops around the monuments every night
until all the white marble and limestone is no longer
intimidating. I just need to keep moving.
There is not much to say and that is how I know
the chapter is unfinished.