In which Viola reads a poem Wesley wrote and talks a little bit about home.
Text of the Poem:
Home is a place with a pulse,
A locale of rhythm and fluidity.
No personification could do this character justice,
For this indeed is far more than an amalgamation
Of tall steel and proud stone.
I don't think you can really leave a place like this.
If home is home, the spirit stays with you for as long as you want,
And resurges in your memory when the present seems bleak.
University City. West Philly.
It's hard to localize the nostalgia.
I remember the winter nights on Larchwood or Baltimore,
Watching the snow drifts pile up on the sidewalks and turn the trolley tracks into rivulets of frost.
I can still smell the fall air, can sense the color shift in the trees of the school's playground.
I recall so many corner stores and restaurants, each so casually friendly.
Each side-street I walk, though with new friends, still fills me with the wonder of childhood—
The pleasant surprise of understanding something old made new.
Every path and building cries out to me,
Shouting to impart a message that most of us busy urban ants miss in the daily commotion:
There is still adventure to be found here!
Soccer every Saturday at Clark Park grants dusty respite from frenzied weekdays.
Then on Wednesdays the apartment becomes filled with the improvisations of Coltrane.
I can travel back in space and time just by turning on the classic "Blue Train",
Can relive cozy rainy days at will.
So ingrained are the visuals that I couldn't tell you street names, only stories.
I could walk you just about anywhere, show you what I see, but not how I see it.
Now that I'm back and all the people I remember are gone,
I can finally make this place truly my own, and not just in my solitary way.
Perhaps I'll visit my old trolley stop sometime, squeeze into the car like an eel.
Come what may, I am home.