Home is a state of mind. I close my eyes, and I think of, "being home, at last." Oddly, quite often, I'm back on the South Side of Chicago, in our 2/1 walk-up. I see the olive green linoleum, with the yellow star, in the entryway. I see the tiny, hexagonal tiles in our bathroom floor, I see the wallpaper next to the convertible couch where I slept for my first eight years of existence. I feel the wooden, back stairs where my old buddy and I sat, working up tunes for our band. I look down those stairs, and I see the area of our yard where our round, above-ground pool sat.
I am blessed/cursed with a near-photographic memory. Home seems so close by, seems like I can easily walk down the street and find the entranceway to our six-flat, that my granddad owned. Thing is, I left it, fifty-five years ago. In the horrible violence that now surrounds it, I, truly, "can never go home, again."
