When I was a little girl, I remember the serenity of morning owl coos resonating through the cool, crisp morning air of my grandparents’ back porch. At 12, I sipped piping hot coffee from a Norman Rockwell mug. My Nunu knew this one was my favorite: a painting of a well-dressed woman, donned in red and fur. My Papa rocked back and forth and the creak of the porch rocker lulled me into a peaceful stillness. I learned from an early stage that this was home. My Papa’s jovial love to watch hummingbirds feed for hours. My Nunu’s comfort in monotony.
As I grew, I watched my Father and Mother tend to our home. Nurture and care for it. Mend to it when it was broken. My Father found pleasure in the simple things: mowing grass, carrying fallen branches to the woods, picking up walnuts. He would come inside after a long day, sweaty and green-stained from hours of laborious love. My mother made the interior feel warm and inviting. If you entered, you left smelling of spices and sage. Mesmerized by the artistic museum she spent hours perfecting. They found beauty in work, but found relaxation stunning.
You told me once that I was “home”. You were a lost hitchhiker and found solace in my stability. I was warm and inviting. A place that made you want to hang up your coat, take off your shoes: stay a while. You stayed a while. Wore out your welcome. Stopped paying the mortgage. Suddenly my facing was dilapidated and paint chipped. My gutters burst from tears unnoticed. My windows blurry. My insides gutted and haunted. The neighbors whispered about me. Turned their noses at my lackluster facade. Instead of tending to me, you disappeared. On to the next home.
For the next few years, I took out loans to repair what was mine all along. Blood and sweat to repair the damaged and forgotten beauty of my sacred bones. The ghosts of you haunted my hallways. I dusted my insides. Stripped down the blankets that covered my heart and soul: furniture that had been long forgotten. I painted my exterior. Restored rich green to my eyes and poignant pink to my smile. The neighbors no longer stared, instead they came inside. They sat for a while. Mesmerized at my makeover.
You tried to foreclose me. I am a sacred fortress built from calculated blueprints. Standing tall. For years to come.
-Home
