Returning

On the backside of my parents’ front door,

hung a polished brass plaque,

its edges worn smooth from years of hands brushing past,

its inscription gleaming in bold relief:

“Return with Honor.”

A constant reminder,

a weighty command—

carry your covenants into the world,

and come back whole.

To return…

with honor.

But we leave under shadows of shame,

Stepping away as if failure is etched in our backs.

a  severing of threads,

a breaking of bonds.

Yet leaving can be freedom,

a step beyond the defined,

a chance to rediscover

what lies outside the lines.

Yet my friend Lewis shared a truth:

In the Jewish tradition,

when you leave the faith.

they say,“You have returned to the question.”

Not leaving—returning.

To the quest,

to curiosity,

to what might yet be.

Perhaps my husband didn’t leave me.

Perhaps he returned—

to himself.

Rediscovering what he lost,

as I have returned to myself.

Piecing together fragments,

reclaiming the woman I am,

beyond the roles I wore and the masks I kept.

In the shower,

I pause as the steam lingers,

letting the day dissolve.

Fingers trace my legs,

searching for stubble.

The razor glides,

smooth, smooth, smooth…

marking places I missed,

like memories returning to the body.

I am here,

in my own skin.

I am returning.