Going Home

At my life's ending
will angels whisper in my ear
"Let us take you home?"
But how can I go home with them
when my home is here?

This house, this chair, this potted plant
this blanket fitted 'round my feet,
these things that bring me comfort
I cannot take; I cannot keep.

The memories flood my consciousness,
my life sprawled across this lawn
tangled with my children who
searched for fairies in the dawn,
and made forts out of my clean sheets,
and brought me dandelions and stones
to make a soup that I could eat
on rainy days when they were gone.

These things that bring me comfort,
these things that give me cheer,
I cannot leave behind, my Lord.
I can’t go home; my home is here.                                                                        

Barbara Tylla is a 1960 graduate of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and she pursued a theater career before her marriage. She began freelance writing in 1977. Her stories have won three Catholic Press Awards, a Wisconsin Public Radio Award, and her poetry can be found in Tulip Tree Press and Oprelle Publication Anthologies.