you shake hands with the doorknob
whose shape has become familiar,
the warm hand of an old friend.
now you try to remember every detail
as you walk that last time:

the feel of the ground under your feet,
the rustle of leaves underfoot,
the smell of newly cut grass by the side,
the scent of the earth
you used to kick up every day.

maybe the iron of the gate
is heavier than you remember;
you smell the rust on the iron
as it shakes loose, on this
last graceless swing.

you stop under the big tree,
as it rains down leaves on you
one last time: now
try to prolong the inevitable,
that final leaf, the slow fall.

remember, now, how many steps
it takes from here to there.
forty-three steps until here
is no longer here, and
home is no longer home.

you think of how turtles walk,
slow and heavy with their
store of home on its back.
you carry your memories of home,
and your steps are slower, more burdened.

the wind hurries the leafstorm,
and it hurries you, too,
forty-three steps more
until these streets turned strangers
turn familiar friends once more.