LadyCorvidae

First inhalations past the threshold, wordless perfume somewhere between dust, sunlight blooming floral in an open mouth, and linen. My grandfather said his first action home after slipping the tired strap of his travel-bag off his shoulders was to kiss the coverlet of his bed, and at eight I couldn't comprehend. Now I understand it is prayer and apology for wanderlust, infidelity to spaces we so often take for granted. I cannot steal his ritual, so mine lingers in breath instead-- I refuse to breathe until I open the door, until I hunger for home, and home becomes my lungs again. I breathe around the word like wine, lips closing around the syllable, a spoonful of shepherd's pie. I am the sommelier of journey's end; it is never the same bouquet twice. Sometimes the rice has gone bad in the fridge, overpowering the ghost of lavender; Sometimes three o'clock warms old candle wax, leaving notes of peony and laughter. I savor all the same. I wonder if the doorframe

Something in the chord structure stretches me toward an undisclosed summer. 9:00 breathes through the blinds, feline. My fingers brush between alternating stripes of (what I imagine are) January shadow and August, stifling. This? Not a memory; I've never caressed walls at the 30th parallel, but the staccato pulls my back toward places the front of me hasn't seen. Maybe music mirrors these paths I obsess with and peek at through my fingers-- choices made, another universe; a collateral me.

Colors tie to memory-- this time, a house listing with maroon porch accents that yank me to the sidewalk across my childhood street. What did my mother plant, crouching? It was summer--were they hostas? I can see the stripes of her tank-top, the flower-patterned garden gloves waving from her pocket. How many feet of my father's twine did I ruin at eight years old, making "boy traps" in the lilacs? I made thumbprint animals on my window, my company while grounded. Why do I miss these moments, insignificant until this instant? Can I measure such questions in yards of wasted time?