my mother was
the kitchen of our house
the place of practical, purposeful sustenance
and my father,
the useless, flapping, broken
back door,
that was ripped away one
night in a storm...
gone forevermore

my mother's father, the strong beams, hardwood,
that held us altogether,
kept the roof over our head
held out the night....

my mother's sister, the soft
places to fall, to cuddle in to
to cry and bawl...

and us the kids, all three
i hope, we were the joy
the bright, painted things
the hope for bigger,
better days....
the windows that,
allowed the sun's gentle rays.

we were the laughter,
that i know....
as we grew,
out past the rafters ....
and into ourselves.

my mother was the hearth
around,
which we all where
warmed,
my mother,
was the architect
of how the house,
was reformed...
after the storm
and gave us all a strength
of beam and a go get the world gleam.

the house, was a metaphor,
for the childhood days,
understood, more and more now,
with the passing of days.