...But Home

I remember when you took your first steps

Now you park your size ten feet

comfortably on the coffee-table

and I smile as I touch the feeling of Beautiful that comes

not from the word house

but home

I’m glad we don’t say house, sweet house
or, God bless our house

because mortar and bricks are cold

without the warmth of laughter and love

making the humblest of boxes

a castle, as we fill the air with echoes not of house

but home

so the fruit bowl empties too quickly

and clutter seems to have taken up permanent residence

and someone left the toilet-seat up

and there’s always footwear on the mat inside the door

and the bills are endless

and always higher than expected

and there's always something to repair

and the sink is full of dirty dishes again

and who left crumbs on the counter?

and who didn’t tell me they drank the last bit of milk?

and why do you always make me worry that you’re going to miss the bus?

and oh, you still turn to wave after all these years

and I turn to the house, suddenly extra-quiet after the morning bustle

and I don’t mind that you never see my freshly-arranged vignettes

or the row of flowers on the window-sill

‘cause mom’s always arranging and re-arranging something

and I really don’t mind if the first thing you say when you return home is

‘what’s for dinner’?

Or that the laundry hampers are full again

Or that we don’t have a lot of extra money for ‘fancy’

Or that our ‘extra-specials’ seem quite ordinary

Or that our rooms will never make a center-fold,

Because you just came home, humming happily

…and I know your shoes are on the mat inside the door

where I will likely trip over them in the morning

because I don’t feel like saying, 'put your shoes away'

And oh, I’m so thankful for the blessing, not of house

but home

© Janet Martin

Inspired by Vee's post today.