Prodigal

 
I’ve been away for years.
 
   She’s been gone for too long.
 
Going home isn't an option.
 
   Maybe she thinks she’s not welcome here.
 
The scent of cinnamon buns
this morning made me wish I was in my mother’s
kitchen again.
 
   I wish I had given her my recipe for cinnamon buns.
   How she loved them as a
   little girl.
 
Would it be wrong to just show up ?
 
   I still watch out the window for her.
 
Would she even want me
there?
I can't undo
anything.
 
   I don’t care what she’s  
   done. I just want to  
  hold my baby again.
 
I want to go home.

I need to go home.

I’m going
home.
 
   Sometimes when I watch this movie,
   I imagine her at five,
   cuddled up against me on the couch,
   covering her eyes whenever the Wicked Witch flies by.
 
My key still works.
Amazing.
 
   “Who’s there?” I demand,
   startled by this
   intrusion.
 
“It’s … me, Mom,” I say,
as Dorothy clicks her heels and repeats,
“There’s no place like home.”