The Wanderer

A poem

Carl Julius von Leypold, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

You don’t have much of your own

You weave in and out of other people’s homes

Their traditions, their rituals

Their curtains and lamps are yours

You help make their food

Wash their dishes

Then one day you pack up your toothbrush

And move on

-

As a child, you had your own life

But you had to keep it hidden

Live your mother’s life

With a smile

Wash the dishes, make the food

Nothing around you was yours

Could be taken from you at any time

So you let it go

-

You found a caravan to travel with

You sheltered with them, ate with them

You raised their children

Carried on your quiet life in their midst

One day, they told you to leave

The caravan split, and then split again

So you packed up your toothbrush

And moved on

-

You didn’t come from anywhere

No culture or history of your own

You know nothing of your ancestors

Your village had a history as blank as their smiles

But you pass through remnants of great cultures

Families that birth love down through generations

Mingling sorrow, pain, and joy

You tip your cap as you walk past

-

You stand in the middle of a room

Yours, no one else’s

For the first time in your life

You still feel like a stranger

Will you put down roots of your own?

Will you buy your own curtains and lights?

Or will you find a new caravan?

There is no wrong answer