The White Tuckered House

Memories are imbedded

In the halls, the walls,

And in the floor of a home.


It’s the scripted lines

Marked on the door frame

With different colored pens;

The story of how much we grew.


It’s the fireplace

That reassured our toes warmth

When money could not,

Or would not,

Always be there.


It’s the tiny round table

Merely fitting in the kitchen

Where we would huddle around

To indulge in each other’s laughs

And the daily news.


It’s the three bedrooms

Where four people became five,

Where five became six,

And the six became three.


It’s the stone patterned patio

Built with the hands

of an self-reliant woman,

Who lifted each stone herself

As she does the same for her four kids.


It’s the scratched wooden floors

Scraped by the rearranging

Of our family

For better or worse.


It’s the late mortgage payments,

Hung on the door knob

That fought a consistent battle,

But never defeated our spirits.


It was the white tuckered house

On route 423

That I drive by to see,

Where commodities became reminders

And a house became something more.