This is Also My Home

Dusty, creaky, familiar sounds from decades before. Comfy couches, National Geographics, the TV stand next to the brick fireplace. Slamming screen door, daddy long legs, pails and shovels left on the front stoop. Family pictures hung on the wall, chipped dishes from my grandfather’s cupboard, knotty wood beam, pink tiled bathroom floors. Musty, quiet, flashes from the lighthouse cross the night sky. Leaves shifting, squirrels leaping through undergrowth, towels hung on laundry lines, moss and lichen climb the trees, weeds wisp past my calf. Sand on the floor boards, sand on the rugs, sand in my bed. Same old bed frames, same old sheets, same rusty faucet, same clinking latches on the doors. Same certain sense that my family is here, just over my shoulder but out of sight, whispering welcomes and bids to stay awhile.

This is also my home.