Home is supposed to be where the heart is but my heart is in the barely readable initials my brother and I carved into the trunk, in the purple leaves of summer, in the height of its fall foliage, in the rustle of night June breezes and the pathways of squirrels and cats to the roof above my head as I tried to sleep
In the dip of the ground of our front lawn that seemed treacherous as a five-year-old
In the lilac by the back fence
In the side path crunch of gravel on our way from the patio peace to check the mail every August afternoon
In the way my feet know exactly which floorboards in the hallway creak when I snuck home late at night
In the work from my mother in every square inch
In the absence of my father three out of four weekends of every month
In the way my brother’s footsteps down the hall were only slightly heavier than my mom’s
In the squeak of the four poster bed I inherited
In the teal I chose for my room as I tried to grow into 14 years of age
In the rattle of the seldom-used old fireplace as we’d run towards the back door
The hush when we left my mother
The blanket of content silence when we visit and wake up to the next calm day
The pop of ceiling beams as they relaxed from the heat after summer sunsets
In the halls
In the rooms
In the sounds
In the skitters
In the walls
In the floors
In the air
In this house
On this land that my mother, not being Wenatchi or Yakama, did her best to steward and nurture
In this tree
My heart
My memories
My base
Home is an anchor, a telescope, those outstretched arms, a peace.
A place.
By the roots of my hometree I bury a piece of my voice, a file from my archives, a small box of my memories before I lose them to the void.
May doing so sever me, never more tethered there. Free.
May it find comfort there, even when the white world as we know it passes on and leaves those branches be.
No comments:
Post a Comment