Till we bought this place in September, for seven years Patrushka and I traveled – homeless, rootless. No home to go home to. It was circumstances. Not our choice, really – there were things we had to do. East Coast, West Coast, the UK – even South Africa for a couple of months.
I like staying on the move. I could live in hotels and just keep going. But I want to go home too. I mean really – Home. That place where I used to live a long long time ago.
All those years a line from an old poem kept trying to be reborn in my head. What was it? How did it go? The snatch I semi-remembered went something like this: “I’ve been gone so long I don’t know where my home is anymore.”
But that’s not a poem. The actual poem wouldn’t form in my mind. I just knew it expressed a deep homesick feeling like mine.
I was leafing through my 1964 journals the other night to help remember details for the Langley Porter post. And I found it – the poem, that is. I had copied it out neatly in my book one afternoon at Langley Porter.
“He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where;
He says it is so far
That he hath quite forgot how to go there.”
Ain’t that pretty? It was worth the wait.