Every year in August

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“We shall not cease from exploration:
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.” T.S Eliot

Every year in August,

Every year, for the past ten years,

The same old dance.

First, we argue about the length of time

We will spend there.

Three weeks or nothing, my husband

At least four, I insist.

In September,

Looking for tickets,

Maybe via Europe, Paris, Rome,

Perhaps on the way back.

A little bit of vacation, from the vacation,

 My husband, suggests, hints?

Now a car, a place to stay,

Back and forth we go, marking dates,

Then erasing them one by one,

And starting again.

Almost time to pack,

Where is that blue bag?

The Carry-on Luggage,

Where I pack my essentials;

My Bible, slightly ripped,

In two languages,

Pink Teddy-bear, for good luck,

 Books, at least two, and meds,

Some food, mostly candy,

Change of clothes (you never know).

December comes with a dusting of snow,

I pet each cat, quick pet on the head,

Already feeling guilty.

Three hours to Portland,

Two in the airport,

Two more on the plane to Newark,

I hate that airport.

Two more, digesting airport foods

Ten hours on the stuffy plane,

Watching movies through half closed eyes.

Landing,

Well known scenery in the window,

The coast line and sparkling blue sea,

The colors; so brown, so unforgiving.

The airport, now in Hebrew,

There is no place like home,

The posters on the walls point out.

The language quick and jumpy,

The language enveloping and familiar

We flag a white taxi,

And get trapped for hours,

 In the afternoon rush-hour

So many people,

All so rushed and nervous.

We try to hold on to our bubble of quiet,

For few more minutes,

Amidst the blasts of car horns.

There is no place like home,

We look at each other and sigh,

Lean back resigned,

We are home.

Uncles, aunts, cousins,

Friends from years go by,

“So what do you think?

How do you explain?

When are you coming back?

Why, is it better there?

And the girls what about them?

If your parents were alive,

What would they think?”

Right to the belly, I cringe.

The food as always good,

The winter sun caressing,

Bought new pair of shoes

Click, clack,

There is no place like home.

It is time to go back.

Blue suitcase and a Carry-on,

Only half an hour to the airport,

But twelve bumpy ones on the plane.

Newark here we come,

One hour in the immigration line,

Welcome home American citizens.

The plane to Portland is delayed,

It always is.

Two more hours on the plane,

Three hours in the car,

The house is a mess,

Cat hair everywhere,

Dead flowers,

Dust and cobwebs.

Ten inches of packed snow

Pressing on, pushing in,

Frozen pipes in the shower.

There is no place like home,

There is no place like home.

Every year in August,

Every year, for the past ten years

The same old dance,

The same heartaches.

But there is no place like home,

No place like home.