With all my heart, I assume we have three homes.
There is the place we come from, where our ancestors murmur in cogitating brooks and we flock now and then to cast our nets for hellos like fishermen returning to proven depths.
There are the places we roam, where moments cloak us like deliciously frightening dreams and we hang our coats and hats and surrender our mittens. We sit and pretend over coffee and feel our bodies shudder imperceptibly on their moors, something echoing inside.
And there is the home of homes, where our souls find rest. It is not a building or a body or a country, though the earthly fields where it temporarily resides bloom like a thousand yellow lighthouses anchored in seas of green. This home is where I go at the end of my trip in a few days, to you, knowing I shall see our name wherever we go along the way, like on that building in Cuxhaven with Christiansen hanging like a coat of arms upon the Strandhaus.
And we shall find rest once again.
I traveled across the ocean,
in a whistling skiff built for one,
that the heart fashioned for two.
I saw sinking cities poking out their heads,
like the blinding noses of giants.
I saw media worshiped as a god,
and people living in a dream.
I remembered who I lost,
thought of who I gained,
and breathed for who I left.
Now I am going home,
where our name licks the salt,
and watches the tides;
where we lie and wait for nothing,
as the hours become centuries.
Yes, I am going home.