This House

February 19, 2018



I have grown to love this house
It, itself, is not mine
I have never lived here
nor have I occupied myself with it’s well being
That place of honour has belonged to my parents

Yet, it has held for me the heart of family
storing tenderly, photographs of a cherished past
gathering into its rooms the bric-a-brac of lives well lived

I 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 father
His presence captured in the stillness of the afternoon light in the kitchen window

I love this house as I love my mother
Her’s, a gregarious embrace of white lace curtains dancing in that light

This house, this bosom
Waits here for me and my kin

and is the reliquary of my love for them

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