I just opened my Notion, the program I use to separate my personal writing from my schoolwork, and I looked back on the things I've written down in the past six months or so. I started a poem about driving, recent car rides I had been on with the people in my life.
Over the summer, I was on a drive with my grandma, probably picking up our takeout from a restaurant near her house. This isn't something particularly new, as I have lots of memories, even early ones from kindergarten, of sitting in my Dada's car. But this time, it was not long before I drove my own car to Massachusetts, no longer needing to rely on my parents to get back and forth from Pennsylvania. I was looking forward to fall, but in that moment, I was still enjoying the summer.
I never finished this poem, and it's far from polished, and I don't usually like the way my poetry turns out anyway. It's just something I do sometimes for fun, to get my thoughts out and make them sound pretty. But moral of the story - I reread the stanza about that summer drive, and I was reminded of it. Basically, it's about home. And it's making me think of home as I sit here on campus, months later, in the midst of spring semester. Here it is.
Weeks away from leaving and
minutes away from my grandmother’s,
the home that hasn’t changed
from my childhood days, and she tells me,
although the seasons move so quickly lately,
she can’t wait for the fall, when the
surrounding trees start to lose their leaves
as she drives around and watches,
and I’ll be miles away, thinking of her,
in a different car, with a similar demeanor,
away from home, but never far from it, either.
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