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.
HCXOXO,
Cailee