It's strange, the way home fluxes and moves, careless and undulating
the way one's viewing of one's own past
our history, etched inedibly upon our skin and behind our eyes
under our fingernails and within every pore
the way it changes and adjusts
slowly, minutely
creepingly
until one day you look upon it and find your memories have all changed
your own hard-fought understanding have given way, finally, at last, to something new
be it a peace, some closure, a small measure of affection
or things less benign
nothing ever stays the same
least of all the past.
