I walked behind my father
picking up stones while he
picked up golf balls
in the back field.
I would stretch my strides
to fit his footprints
in the mud.

I watched my mother
cooking spaghetti and
breaking the noodles
in half to fit in my little mouth.
Outside I would break twigs
to length my mother
always did, pretending
to be a chef.

I walked behind my father
that last time he left
trying to get one last kiss
to last me "til next time".
After school I aways waited
for his maroon honda
to never show up.

I watched my mother
going through boxes
and crying over this.
Filling the boxes and
filling my mouth
and working three jobs.
She was packing up
what was left of our home.

Years later
I walked behind my father
as he opened his door
and lead me to the kitchen
where she was cooking noodles
for the first Christmas
I'd seen him in so
many years.

I watched my mother
upstairs of my grandpa's house
flipping through newspapers
for a place to rent
to get out on our own.

And then I noticed myself,
no longer following or watching,
but outside in bike rides
and car rides,
I realized I was finally
looking for home.