FWF ~ A Street is Not a Home

I can’t really talk about the street I grew up on…
There were many.
Divorce does that and so do second marriages.
So I lived on many different streets growing up,
often two at a time–
the street my mom lived on
and the street my dad lived on.
The street where our duplex was
the only one with a tramp in the backyard.
The street where we lived in a mother-in-law basement.
My grandmother’s street, a cul-de-sac,
quiet neighborhoods throughout Salt Lake Valley–
I mean, aside from the short stint in California
when I was too young to even remember it.
I feel like we moved so much
that I never really settled down.
At times, I struggle to remember
the names of the streets we’ve lived on.
It wasn’t until I was 10
that we found houses that we stayed in.
After that, it was a neighborhood
and we had neighbors that were friends.
So many streets to remember,
but all they tell me now is that
home is wherever your heart is.

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