Whenever I come back to this place –
the place of my childhood –
the memories rush back
but have no place to go,
like the June bugs attracted
to the light on the corner of the garage
that my parents left on for me
when I would come home late.
I walked through a minefield
of bugs on their backs,
not knowing they were trying to get in
now unable to move.
But, that house has been sold, and
that door is locked to me now, too.
And I have no idea what to do
with these memories
except wiggle on my back these few days
until I flip back over
to set off in search of another light
where, perhaps, these memories can rest.
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