Home is where the heart is

I have a dark blue cushioned swivel
chair that I’ve used since high school
one of the cast-offs from my dad’s
old company. I’m certain there’s
some kind of luck in its threads,
in its creaky spring. There are
certainly still cat hairs caught
in its seams, still memories and
energy from all the poetry and
IMs and journal entries I’ve
written from that seat.

I haven’t let go of it yet
which is some indication
of how much I still
carry with me
no matter how many
places I’ve lived,
no matter how far
I’ve traveled.

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