The words just don't seem to flow these days. There is no perfect formula for how my meandering thoughts come together to form sentences that don't usually follow a linear path. It's usually nostalgia, too much caffeine, and a slow internet connection that propels me to write. Today, or tonight, it is the thought of home, soft piano keys, and missing the window of being tired enough to fall asleep. So here I am. Overly-tired and yearning to sip from that ridiculously-obvious-floral-New-Mexico-design on our coffee mugs and to touch the familiar creases in the wood paneling of my aged windowsill. Home is sitting beneath the shade of my now-giant maple and ash trees after a long, sweaty run. Home is the cold cement of my porch under my mosquito-bitten toes. Home is a lot of morning coffee. Home is puzzle mania. Home is my mom's stories. Home is Noah's hairflip. Home is Maggie's passion. Home is dad's calm presence.
Home is playing catch with my brother and my dad. Home is my sister's laughter. Home is Jack's confused face when he sees that none of us are fluent in dog. Home is chalk outlines along the cement walkway. Home is arguing about who has to clean the bathroom this time. Home is my tiny closet that has hidden quite a few of my tears from the rest of the house. Home is a lot of long hugs with giant squeezes in the middle. Home is sitting at the counter watching mom feed Jack scraps. Home is walking out to the rusty mailbox in pajamas. Home is listening to everyones voices blend into one. Home is jumping into the crawlspace. Home is boxes of photos. Home is waking up and watching our swingset decay. Home is my dad's hips as the swing into mine. Home is my mom's dancing. Home is Noah's love taps in the arm that feel more like punches. Home is Maggie's sassy voice. Home is my room. Home is my mom's wisdom. Home is turtle doves. Home is comparing facial features to see who looks like who.
Home is commenting on news sets. Home is Jack cowering in the bathroom. Home is putting up Christmas decorations. Home is talking about replacing the deck for the 15th year in a row. Home is a constant stream of tears of joy as well as some sorrow. Home is boxed potatoes that taste bad anywhere else. Home is dad's burgers and mom's stove popcorn. Home is turning off all of the lights and running upstairs. Home is safe. Home is full of "I love you's." Home refuses to be a location no matter how desperately I want it to be.
Love, Madeline
No comments:
Post a Comment