This House

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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