Get Out

“Get out! Get out get out get out get OUT!

“What?”

“Get. Out.”

“Who’s there? Who’s talking to me?”

“Get lost. Go. Begone.”

“Who is this?”

“Just go. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Just scram. You don’t belong here.”

“But this was my home. I used to live here.”

“You never ‘lived’ here. Not really. You survived here. You slept here. Sometimes had meals here. But this isn’t where you really ‘lived.’”

“Okay, you’re freaking me out. Who the hell is this?”

“The house.”

“What?”

“The house.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

“How can a house be speaking to me?”

“Somebody said I had to. A woman who liked half a stick of gum.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Just leave. You’ve lived so many places in your life — thirty-one, last count.“

“Why are you abusing me this way?” 

Because you can’t possibly believe you have a home. Anywhere.”

“I do too. It’s not geographical. It’s not even structural. But it’s home.”

“Oh really… and where might that be?”

“Well, in the beginning, after each of my thirty-one moves, I’ll admit that home is just sort of where my stuff is. It moves from place to place, but it still anchors me in time and space. At least for a little while…. Until I move again. But there is a second part of home that travels without stuff — and even though, I know, it’s a horribly over-used cliche, it is still true: it’s the part that’s in my heart.”

“Huh. So, why are you back here? Heart problems?”

“No.  uh… I’m here for the same reason you’re talking to me. That half a stick of gum lady.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what do we talk about?“

“No idea.”

“Yep. Just what I thought. So GET OUT! Get lost! Scram! Think of something else!”

“Okay.”