arrival ovenbird This place is dressed in everything familiar, the timeworn trappings of the known. There's my great-grandmother's Singer sewing machine. There's the chair that induces sleep. Here are the blue and white bed sheets, the bowl from Ukraine, the painting of children skating on a frozen pond. But my childhood isn't here, inside these walls. When I call out no memories answer. My first night I didn't dream at all, kept up by the intermittent hum of the air conditioner. In the morning I had to ask: Where are the bowls? Where are the cups? What drawer hides the spoons? Exhausted and confused, I ate yogurt and blueberries with lemon curd stirred through, though I wasn't hungry. There are robins in the yard–bright red splashes in the clover. I say hello, and hello, and hello to these winged souls who never question whether or not they're home. Later I drink tea from a mug I've never seen. Sit at a table untouched by platters of my mother's roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. But when we're all gathered, and laughter catches me by surprise, and I have to fold myself in half to keep myself whole…then…then I get my bearings and find that I’ve made my way to somewhere I remember after all. 260722 what's it to you? who go blather from