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
‘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
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