Finding my ancestral home

If you're lucky

Your ancestral home will find you,

But you might have to wait a lifetime.

Mine kept eluding me.

I yearned to get there, but where?

Then I found it in a picture on a wall

In an old library

In a town I used to live in.

Here is how:

I was participating in a protest

That was in full swing.

People standing on the corners

At the only stoplight

With angry signs

Chanting their demands,

Raising the temperature

But nothing would melt the ice.

I ducked into the library

To warm my hands,

Leaning my sign inside the door.

I said hello to the librarian

And went right up to an old picture

Across the room.

An old pastel

In the original frame.

My name is Gary,

I said to the picture (without words).

I lost track of you, I said

Tears welling in my eyes.

The pastel was of a house with a steep thatched roof

That sloped almost all the way to the ground.

The roof had one gable with a ruby window,

Or perhaps it was reflecting a red sun.

The light around the house was golden brown

And there was a beautifully framed front door

With carved figures in the dark wood.

Halfway on an earthen walkway,

Standing on the path,

Is a dark-skinned woman

Wearing a green and blue shawl.

She is looking at me expectantly,

As if I am an anticipated guest

Just arrived.

Perhaps a distant cousin.

I must have studied that picture for a good long time.

I didn't want to leave it.

But I heard the chanting outside.

What is democracy?

This is democracy!

What is democracy?

This is democracy!

I never realized before

How protesting is an exercise in liminality.

The library warmed my body

But the old pastel warmed my soul.

I thanked the librarian

And returned to the protest refreshed,

Remembering to pick up my sign at the door.