My name is Podrigotuma and a number of years ago I got the chance to go back to the house

that I lived in in my 20s.

It was amazing to have the opportunity to go in and I hope in the door to the room that

I had lived in for four years and put my hand on the ground and felt like I was being

made again and touching who I was in my 20s by being in there and honoring the ground.

The place holds so much, obviously the material objects that are in there but it is more than

that it's who we've been in this place and poetry that speaks of place is always speaking

about more than just what's there.

What's there holds something much bigger than the material reality of itself.

It's kept alive by Erin Kaiseido Kimura.

She crunches her walker into the sea of pebbles surrounding the stepping stones, tells me

this bush with flowers is Japanese.

That one is too, but different.

I hover close behind, ready with an outstretched arm as if to give a blessing.

Take that large weed near the lantern by the roots and throw it into the pale.

My father planned and planted this garden 50 years ago hidden behind the fence of their

Santa Rose attract home.

But he's gone now.

She hires a hand to rake leaves, prune branches once a month.

Soon she'll be gone.

I'll sell the house, return to Connecticut.

A stranger will buy it, become caretaker of the garden, but won't know that from their

...