It’s always the same routine in the first week or so.  I spend a lot of time looking. I open doors, drawers and rummage through bins and boxes of photographs in my closet. I press my nose up to the widow and see if I can still see the rooftop of an old friend’s house. I wake up early before anyone and feel my feet on the pine wood floors. The fan buzzes cool morning air in the kitchen window, sounds of old doorknobs turning, the closing of windows, water running through the pipes when somebody takes a shower, where is that home I was looking for? Did I miss it somewhere? Outside my feet tingle walking on the weedy prickly grass.  Chipped paint and broken boards and splinters, a column has fallen down, the wrap around porch has seen better days. I find wasps nests buzzing near planter boxes. The bird nests under the eaves of the roof are gone. I peek out the back door at night. The smell, the same sweet cooling of wheat smell you can only get after 100 degrees on the Palouse, I do find that. And I find the moon, the stars and all those moths that use to buzz and flutter under the back porch light with all the possibilities, all my possibilities and I thank them for being there, and for remembering me.

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