February 19, 2018
I have grown to love this houseIt, itself, is not mineI have never lived herenor have I occupied myself with it’s well beingThat place of honour has belonged to my parentsYet, it has held for me the heart of familystoring tenderly, photographs of a cherished pastgathering into its rooms the bric-a-brac of lives well livedI know well the kitchen drawer where the table cloths are kept, lovingly ironed and folded by my mother, ready for the next meal
I can always call to memory the musty smell of the bedroom closets; a remembrance of dampness and suitcases.
I am anchored here as the clothesline is anchored to the jasmine draped concrete steps leading to the garden planted by my father
I love this house as I love my fatherHis presence captured in the stillness of the afternoon light in the kitchen windowI love this house as I love my motherHer’s, a gregarious embrace of white lace curtains dancing in that lightThis house, this bosomWaits here for me and my kin
and is the reliquary of my love for them
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