I was feeling homesick when I wrote this poem.  It is a strange thing to say, considering I have lived away from my “hometown” for more than 6 years now.  But for me, when I think of the word “home”, it still means Didsbury – the small Alberta town that I grew up in.  So, as I missed my old home, I imagined myself travelling all those miles from the coast of B.C. to the prairies of Alberta.  It is a beautiful drive – well worth the trip even if you’re not heading towards family.  But it is just that much more beautiful to me as it takes me closer to a place that is full of memories and people who I care about.

Where is home for you? What is it that makes a place a home anyway? Personally, I have found that “home” is not necessarily a place as much as it is the people who are there.  But for those of you who are lucky enough to still have a connection to your childhood home, perhaps that is the place that you think of.  For me, “home” is a complicated mixture of people and memories created over many years.  Sometimes I wonder if the place I live in now will ever truly feel like home to me.  Together, my husband and I have a big extended family who we have shared many happy moments with. We have friends that we’ve known so long that they have become family. This poem was written with fond memories of them and the “homes” that we have shared.  It is less about a specific house and more about the memories accumulated over time.  For I have found that over time, all those things that were once familiar and ordinary have become so much more in my memory.

Long Road Home
By Krista Longeway

A long ribbon of highway
Stretching from here to there.
Climbing over snow topped mountains
And through small villages 
Clinging to the side of steep slopes,
Winding through pine forests
That flow into the foothills 
And gradually level out
Until we’re driving across the plains.

Past field after field
Of grains and pastures.
A patchwork of colours
Separated by gravel roads 
And mismatched fences.
Through sunny clusters of poplars
That whisper in the wind.
Past farms and dugouts
Where cattle lounge lazily in the sun.
And beyond the creek 
Where the crickets sing at night.
Just a few more miles
Then…
Home

With open arms I run to greet this place,
Full to the brim with happy memories.
Warm smells from the oven
Waft through an open window,
Lacy curtains fluttering at the sill. 
Past a lush garden, tended with care,
Past the apple tree, heavy with fruit ready to be picked.
Ordinary moments from my everyday life
Turned beautiful and extraordinary 
By time and distance.

How many times have my feet walked this path,
Yet today it is new and marvelous.
This is what it means
To belong to a place,
To a home,
To a family.