COMING HOME

I am not home until I see

the Tacoma Narrows Bridges

looming dark against the sky,

suspended securely,

reaching across the strait

connecting Tacoma to Gig Harbor.

I am not home until I see

Anderson’s store to the right

and Point Fosdick to the left.

Memories of childhood bike rides

and adventures awarded

with a 25 cent Snickers bar.

I am not home until I see

Mrs. Lewison’s farm overgrown and wild.

Memories of visits all in Norwegian.

Her wrinkled ruddy face

and long faded blonde braid

wound ‘round her head like a Norse crown.

I am not home until I see

forests dense with fir and pine

pointing to the cloud-filled sky.

Pt. Fosdick leading me up hill and down

around a corner

until finally the dead end is in sight.

And I am home.

The bay greets me with sparkling winks,

enticing me to turn down the last steep hill

past the white name signs

with fewer familiar and more unfamiliar names

until I see my own father’s name.

Memories wash over me like a tsunami.

Unraked autumn leaves crunching underfoot.

Sprinting up the hill breathless to catch the morning school bus.

Freshly plucked Italian plums tucked in my pocket.

A wrinkled brown lunch bag clutched in my hand.

Walking my best friend home up the hill to the dead end

because playtime was long over.

Magical snowy winter days and school closures.

Black bouncy inner tubes swooshing down the snow-covered hill.

Fruit trees exploding in spring blossoms.

Fragrant knockout roses lining the driveway.

Summer-ripe red raspberries and blackberry bushes.

Waves drumming on barnacle encrusted beach rocks.

Rain drizzling on welcoming leaves.

Sea air filling my hungry lungs

My heart and mind with childhood happiness

love, peace, and contentment

that have lasted half a century

when I come home.

*Poems of the Point, 2022 Lauri Cruver Cherian