Domestic Migrations
by Carol A. Stephen

When I moved away from home the first time
I didn’t know much beyond how to cook roast beef,
and badly or how to boil potatoes into mush, but I learned quickly
that a tiny budget can run out before the next pay.

And when I moved again it was to the sky, an 18th floor apartment,
far above the hum of traffic and mosquitoes. We could see
for miles and miles, the eastern sky and sunrise. Inside,
our first real furniture, all teak and glass and fabric for cat claws…

Each time we moved, we accumulated. More things, more books,
more clutter. Each move we needed more space to store the things
that made our lives real. A bigger television, electronics, and pictures
hubby painted for the walls, no matter that he wasn’t very skilled.

He moved on, back to Mommy’s house and…