The kicking and screaming places

There are the places
you move to for adventure's sake,
where you first circle Dupont
(without ending up in Maryland),
and that make-it-here-make-it-anywhere
feeling slips like a sash
over your shoulder.

There are the places
you go for a change in pace,  in scenery,
like when the kids are little and
you're dying for a backyard
or a short commute--
or both--if you can even imagine.

And then there are the places,
the places you only go
because your story takes you there.
I call these
the kicking and screaming places.

I can't come out and call Ohio
a kicking and screaming place.
It's not (not entirely).
But in comparison, like when I
wake up in Alexandria on vacation
and wonder why it's not home anymore,
and then get excited about going home,
but only because I've momentarily
pictured the wrong house,
the one I moved from months ago,
when I wince disappointed,
well, then it feels--
if only by comparison--
like a kicking and screaming place.

And I wonder when I am ever
going to feel like home is home,
actually, and not just a place where we keep the furniture
and do the laundry,
when I am ever
going to look down at my feet
and see them-
not itching or wriggling
or twitching or kicking every which way-
but stayed,


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