Belonging

A meditation on longing and exclusion, partly motivated by real experiences.

The muse is fickle.

She does not always separate the elements—

wind from rain from cloud—

but delivers them all at once,

a single maelstrom,

relentless in its intensity,

heedless of impact or aftermath.

From such origins my answer hails:

a mélange of contradictory emotions,

poured through me without measure,

with no regard for proportion or propriety.

It is not a recipe—it is instinct.

I place it here,

where you will not find it.

I will build another response to send to you instead,

one you will find far less displeasing.

---

I have walked this street before—

or one very much like it.

The houses are beautiful—

not all, but enough to draw me back,

again and again,

whenever the memory fades.

There is always one—different each time—

a door left ajar, a window unlatched and lifted.

I pause to peer inside,

wondering if it is an invitation,

or a mistake.

When boldness finds me—

or when the scents and lights within prove too tempting—

I venture closer,

uncertain what I will do when I arrive.

I may touch the door,

stroke the sill,

marvel at what it must feel like

to belong to such a noble edifice—

to stand proud and steadfast,

filled with delicate marvels,

with intricate curiosities.

How grand it must be to dwell here—

swaddled in familiarity,

smothered in safety,

drowning in trust.

Each breath a hymn to belonging.

If I cross the threshold, will it claim me?

If I slip through the window,

will I be added to their number—

stitched into the quilt that beckons

from the back of the well-worn armchair?

Is any of this meant for me?

If not, why leave the door so wide?

Why draw the curtains back,

framing your splendors like celestial art?

Do you delight in my desire—

to see it laid bare,

only to deny it?

Then close your doors.

Latch your windows.

Your temptation needs no such theater.

I will go.

But before I do—

a brick here, a piece of siding there,

a slice of pie cooling in the window,

my tithe for this unwilling performance.

I return to my place

and burn them to my god.

As the sweet smoke rises, I inhale—

and find myself once more on that street, in that house, 

where the quilt enfolds me,

and the armchair gathers me to its bosom,

and I am accepted, adored, beloved.