There is an old ice cream shop
that no one knows of
my parents used to take me there every weekend
they still do sometimes.
I remember when the parking lot was tiny pieces of broken up rock
when it was paved over, it trapped my mother and father’s relationship under it.
That’s okay, the gravel hurt my bare feet anyway.

There is a green building downtown
that has a triangular roof
My dad told me I could skateboard off of it
I tried for months to balance on the dark and dingy board
I gave up when I was ten.

I once lived in a house with my mother
that had more mice than I had friends.
We drove past there recently
the new owners put in fresh windows
perhaps to keep the bug infestation to a minimum.
I bet there are still mice.

I haven’t been to the Catholic Church downtown
where my mother was married
in quite some time.
I remember staring at the candles
with fire so hot that if they lost control,
all of the firefighters would have to water
the wishes held on them away.
I watched my worries drift away with the smoke.
I wonder if all the flames are blown out now.

The ice cream shop is still there
and they haven’t stopped serving
chocolate dipped vanilla ice cream.
I guess some things never change
and maybe
that is the definition
of “home.”