I have grown to love this house
It, itself, is not mine
I have never lived here
Nor have I occupied myself with it’s well being
That place of honour has belonged to my parents
Yet, it has held for me the heart of family
Storing tenderly, photographs of a cherished past
Gathering into its rooms the bric-a-brac of lives well lived
I know well the kitchen drawer where the table cloths are kept
Lovingly ironed and folded, ready for the next meal
I can always call to memory the musty smell of the bedroom closets; a remembrance of dampness and suitcases.
I am anchored here as the clothesline is anchored to the jasmine draped concrete steps
I love this house as I love my father
His presence captured in the stillness of the afternoon light in the kitchen window
I love this house as I love my mother
Her’s a gregarious embrace of white lace curtains dancing in that light.
This house, this bosom, this island
Waits here for me and my kin, and our blessing.