Nostalgia.

I skip down the hall
Full of twelve-year-old innocence--
Floorboards creaking,
Laughter echoing,
Curiosity peaking.
I enter the room--my own room!--
And as I breathe in freshly-painted promise,
I think, So, this is home.

***
I spin--a giggling seventeen--
In my pink, poofy prom dress,
Spilling glitter and posing for silly photos
To post on newly-blue walls.
And when Dad peeks in with a quiet
"You look really pretty, there, kiddo"
I blush and I am home.

***
I drop my bags and, sighing,
Collapse in a twenty-four-year-old heap
Atop my old, squeaky bed.
I peer quizzically at four familiar walls--
Where smudged dolls smile
And strange, new trinkets shine.
Where framed photos fade
Next to my softly swaying wedding dress.

And it's mine.
And it's not.
And it's familiar.
And it's not.
And it's always-yet-no-longer home.