Tell the lake that I am gone.

Tell it I am sorry that I left so soon.

That I left without another summer spent fishing with my legs hanging off the dock.

That I left with another winter, picking my way across where water once was.

That I left before the first swim, the first jump off the end of the dock.

Tell the lake that I am gone.

Tell the lake I am sorry that I left because I know a thousand days lay among the pebbles on the shore.

Tell the lake I am sorry because I left without a word or ripple.

 

Tell the old school that I am gone.

Tell it I am sorry I left so soon.

That I left without another day swinging on the old rusty swing sets, or running through the flower gardens that had taken over the fencing.

That I left without wandering the old paint-stained tile halls, to the old auditorium.

That I left without walking in the dance room, with worn wood floors, and old dusty ballet shoes on the shelves.

That I left without wandering into the tiny closet-sized library and selected another book to curl into a corner with.

Tell the old school I am sorry, that I never gave a warning.

Tell the old school that I am gone.

Tell it I am sorry I left so soon.

 

Tell the apple orchard that I am gone.

Tell it I am sorry I left so soon.

That I left without another fall, plucking yellow, green, and red apples off spiny branches.

That I left without playing hiding-n-seek among the tall grass, and draping branches.

That I left without making one last batch of applesauce, cooling on the stove.

That I left without twirling around in a circle barefooted underneath the blooming branches of apple trees, and the green branches of pine trees.

That I left without kicking my shoes by the old rusty table and chairs and running over the moist moss.

Tell the apple orchard I am sorry, that so much time has passed since I have through it.

Tell the apple orchard that I am gone.

Tell it I am sorry I left so soon.

 

Tell the pottery studio that I am gone.

Tell it I am sorry I left so soon.

That I left without donning on my favorite blue and yellow flowered apron.

That I left without dipping my hands into the water turned grey by clay.

That I left without pressing my foot to the wheel peddle one more time.

That I left without crafting more vase, or pitcher.

Tell the pottery studio that I am sorry, that I have never come back to visit.

Tell the pottery studio that I am gone.

Tell it I am sorry I left so soon.

 

 

 

And tell my bed that I am sorry, that I couldn’t wait one more night.

 

Because my heart was yearning, for something this place never had.

Because you can’t make a home in a place that you have never belonged.

So I will go searching across the oceans, and on highways, until I find the place where I belong.

I might end up in New York, or maybe I’ll end up in the rundown town ten minutes away from the place I called home for eleven years.

But wherever I go and every postcard I send you, make sure to tell everyone that I am sorry, that I am looking for my home, because it is not here.

I have left.

I am sorry that I left so soon.

 

But somehow in my heart, it was never soon enough.