Remembering when home was a place we longed to spend more time in and feeling grateful for having shelter during such a terrible time as I read this Lilah Hegnauer poem.
We love the eve of holy days at home. We lose our mittens,
our heavy boots, toss our briefcases, unlace our braids,
and we, who were only ever employed tenuously to begin with,
throw off the mantle of this recession. We drink gin and we sing.
And you, young, blond curls limp in the heat, take karaoke requests
and queue them up and we all pretend, for a holy
day or two, that we have it all: enameled tubs, spoke and spoon
and spittle of all we won’t actually say. You are more wanted
in this world than anything since or after. You are wanted like
a hasp wants its pin, like a comma wants another clause. Give it.