I Am Home
It's the warm floors on the coldest nights
Furnace thrums
No cold air seeping through the corners
I sleep with the windows open
so I can hear the sound of the stars
rain falling
snow shooshing
wind cracking vulnerable branches
the moon humming
and cars passing through town
kicking up gravel
At the end of the day, I come in through the mudroom and
bright red back door with a glossy finish
to a kitchen with the smell of coffee and herbs, sometimes bacon
when Tim treats himself to a diner breakfast
This place with overstuffed bookcases
Pictures and trinkets
Mismatched chairs with pillows at the kitchen table
A table salvaged from a burn pile behind the Boys' home
Eight feet long with half burned candles in the middle
and unfinished business on one end;
Taxes or building plans, mail, newspapers folded over
to remind us to read something that struck the other
A jar with fermenting cabbage and a bottle of tahini or some sauce or seasoning
Spills for sure
I roll out pie crust on the other end or plan dinner
No curtains on the windows
but green glass bottles and pottery shapes that love the fickle light of this valley
A sofa big enough for a bunch of people
with cushions that sink and don't mind spills
There have been spills
And the big old jade plants that have grown one from the other
refuse to die from neglect or shadows or front porch spiders when they are moved
in warmer weather
The painted, plastered, and wall papered walls
seem pleased to host the hodgepodge of paintings and drawings and photographs
collected on whims, though sometimes there were voices with stories half told
or rumored. I always remember where they came from.
We are collectors of tokens offered as we move through this life
and we stack and store them
They remind us that we have moved through places and times
that have made us rich with memories
and lives well lived
The empty spaces are waiting
for what comes next
