i take a break from the boxes —
the glaring bare walls, growth
points, formative life-joints
of this little house on the corner —
this little space carved out of time
that could and could and then just couldn’t.
i walk under a canopy and over a carpet
of breathing pink petals and think of
all the places i have lived;
all the places i have loved.
i think of all of the grace-gifts:
laughter, love, moments together,
change, pain, pets, work, healing, play,
terror, longing, dreams, excitement, story,
music, art, panic, hope, crafting, change.
all of this somehow gets turned on its head,
fits into a ten-foot truck, moves down
the block and into a new set
of circumstances, circumvented.
some things travel well:
the cat; the books and
games behaving in their
crates; the rolled posters
and padded paintings.
other things are stubborn; they do not want to be moved:
the great white upright;
grandma’s formal dining table;
the lava lamp.
some things cannot be moved, cannot be reinvented:
the six years of school days; the child-hood charts &
doodles on the door frames; the fort-corner; the kitchen island;
the cave-closet and sacred bathtub and holy dishwasher and
ringo the rat buried in the backyard that goes on forever.
i think of where the sidewalk ends, of where this life-span
twists and turns and comes out on the other side.
i think about how the next house could be the last one i share with my daughter.
i think about the four years of school days to come;
the continuing grace-gifts; the white dogwood
in front of the new house; the two white-tailed
deer come to greet us in the back.
i think about the marvel of a crucible —
how a house, home, heart
can hold so much.