Unfurling in front of me is everything not of community with scorched earth, black rock, and deep pits where homes once stood. I found the small, white, pointed church. As if god lives here anymore. Frantically running with razors, I sketch the house on a stack of charcoal. Smear its chalk over my skin. Harkening to the hereditary tree my feet plunge the rock. My arms stretch to the sun. Leaves unfold. The voices of stories are seared and burned from my father. It all turns to water gliding around me. Marbling coal at the edge of desire over time. It carves, smoothes and rounds me down to pink and red flesh.
The narrow black road winds like thread in front and behind me as I search for the house not seen. Where they stand under the oak tree in a place that exists along an age-old traversed line. That moves from the depths of desires to the webs of nightmares as the ancestors from this place sing. With thin hands and worn clothes they offer me lemonade while kids play and chase and neighbors plan the next barn-raise, all of this a cacophony of ghosts and imagination. The coal road continues with no end nor beginning.
The white farmhouse stands, blurry on the edges and to the touch, with grandma and grandpa solemnly smiling from eyes of spun silk. The porch creeks with farm dust and bones. The oak tree stands proud with empty lemonade glasses strewn on the carpet of grass where smiles, laughter, and languages linger and haunt my eardrums.
I should have known and wanted to so I fill my hollowed body with ghosts of this place until it shines from my eyes, illuminates from my fingers, ears, mouth, nostrils, carries my feet and rusts my skin. The tree has long since faded and the homes are mere scratches in dust. Here I will be granddaughter. Here will be their homecoming.

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