The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina
by Miller Williams
Somewhere in everyone's head something points toward home, a dashboard's floating compass, turning all the time to keep from turning. It doesn't matter how we come to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes the way it went once, where nothing holds fast to where it belongs, or what you've risen or fallen to. What the bubble always points to, whether we notice it or not, is home. It may be true that if you move fast everything fades away, that given time and noise enough, every memory goes into the blackness, and if new ones come- small, mole-like memories that come to live in the furry dark-they, too, curl up and die. But Carol goes to high school now. John works at home what days he can to spend some time with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast. Ellen won't eat her breakfast. Your sister was going to come but didn't have the time. Some mornings at one or two or three I want you home a lot, but then it goes. It all goes. Hold on fast to thoughts of home when they come. They're going to less with time. Time goes too fast. Come home. Forgive me that. One time it wasn't fast. A myth goes that when the years come then you will, too. Me, I'll still be home.