Home Away From Home

Rugged grass ran across youthful skin 

with a multitude of complexion issues; 

my pigmentation glistened under the hot sun. 

Tractors, the sound of chickens, and the beating of

goats is a melody I have familiarized 

myself with since birth. 

A black cat darker than night buddied up with 

another feline whose silver-furred, shined skin skimmed

past my ankles when she crawled by. 

Water that smelled like urban decay and creek water

refreshed my body and cleansed the dirt

that buried itself under my eczema, though. 

I grew up wrestling in the grass, getting bit by my 

own chickens who soon found the same fate on the outside 

of their pen, a predator my own father wouldn’t dare to kill.

One by one, the hens and their eggs disappeared from 

their coop and soon found their new home in the stomach of 

a foxy foe. 

Acres of land, with a backyard bigger than 10 New York apartments, 

carried a treehouse that no amount of memories could erase—

the swings that creaked and croaked and the seats with cracks 

and wrinkles decorating faded color. A patio that carried two birds 

whose vibrant cerulean color could catch the eye of the blind, coupled

with the memories of late-night Monopoly and profanity. 

The countryside has become a distant memory rather than an 

ongoing reality. But, rather than the constant sounds 

of sirens and street racers, I prefer to look into the sky and see stars,

not a polluted sky. The balance of both worlds

keeps me sane, and my ears water when I visit the place that made me

who I am.

Abigail Ricketts ‘28

This piece was inspired by an assignment to write about where I’m from. When I began writing about my childhood home, the words started to flow, and I ended up really liking the piece. I grew up in a ‘more country,’ rural area, and I talked about the beautiful parts as well as the ugly through metaphors, similes, and juxtapositions. I was able to tell the story of my upbrining and thread in some variables that reflect how I am now.