The Overnight House (3/18)

I came with an overnight bag
And you accepted it, set it up in a corner,
While I warmed my feet by your hearth
And reclined in the comfort of your bedsheets.
And when the travel weariness, and wariness of this new place, were lifted,
You had shelves where I could lay my things out nicely,
And a sink to wash the dirty ones.
I discovered a few pieces that had traveled with me -
Things I thought I'd lost.
And you helped me find a few spaces in my bag
That had yet to be filled.
And I stayed for a night.
And when I left, I kissed your doorway
And promised that I'd be back.
And you left your door open,
And the warmth of your fire kissed my heels on the way out.
You let in other travelers while I was gone,
Warmed their feet by your fireplace,
Helped them sort the pieces of life that they brought with them,
And sent them on their way.
But when I came back, which I did many times,
You wrapped me in a hug of home, of comfort,
Like you'd been waiting.
Like I belonged there.
Then one day, I found a hairbrush on your shelf
That someone else had left behind.
She had traveled to your doorstep many times,
Had spent years more than I, coming back to your bedsheets.
She had even stayed longer once,
Had closed your door to other travelers,
And let your warmth grow, locked in, all her own.
And when she left,
She left a hairbrush,
Like you were waiting for her.
Like she belonged there.
After that day, I spent a long time traveling.
I stayed at many overnight houses,
Looking for a place to leave a hairbrush.
Looking for a place that felt warm, and comfortable, and home.
But I remembered your open door,
And I came back once or twice.
And you greeted me with the same warm hug,
And your sheets were just as soft,
And I could see where all my things used to go on your shelves,
And I could picture the empty spaces in my bag, some of which were filled.
But I didn't unpack.
And I didn't stay the night.
And I didn't leave a hairbrush when you kissed my heels on the way out.