I just came home and the house is a mess. Home is where the heart is. Some people’s hearts. Not everybody’s. Home is where the mess is. Home is where the broom is, where the stains and the blood and the love and the mold is, home is where the trapped brain is. Home is where the bed is, where the sleep is, where the night cries out because something happened. Home is where you get so sick, where you get so scared. Home is where things are going to have happened, where nothing happens, where no one knows what’s happened. Home is where a clock crashes down on you when you try to open a window, home is where you cry out but no one hears you from the other room. Home is where the anger comes from, followed by the reconcilations, followed by the sadness. Home is where you don’t get rid of things, home is the optimism of getting attached, home is the refrigerator hum and the darkened closets, home is where things get lost. Home is I don’t think so, says Faye who has just learned to say I don’t think so for the first time in her life. Home is where the words are a mess, where the heart is a mess. Home is where you don’t have time to finish writing. Home is where we get tired. Home is where we begin again.