B double OK Book
I must be 6 years old. I am on the porch of my childhood home, 39 Dempster Street, Ravena, NY. The paint on the wooden porch is thick, cracked, and peeling in spots.
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I am coming home
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from first grade
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up the three steps to the landing. Some of the paint flecks on my hand.
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It's a warm, bright day.
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I wear sturdy leather tie shoes, Buster Brown — "Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy" (The Andy Devine Show. What a bizarre show. What kind of drugs were they on?) — or Keds, so I can run faster, jump higher.
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I am skipping. I have that "I am skipping" feeling even if I am not skipping.
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I am inside of the house watching myself arrive. I am outside of my house and outside of myself watching myself arrive. And I am my arriving self.
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You can have your mantras. Your "Om Mani Padme Hum," your "Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison," your "Hare Krishna Hare Krishna."
I have mine.
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You have arrived. You are home. You are always arriving. You are always home.
You, my innocent, curly haired, skipping, child of my heart, have never left.
