“We’re gonna move?!” was the plot twist
In the remake comedy “Cheaper by the Dozen.”
Never would I have thought, though, that in 2007,
In the family room of 170 Wildflower Creek Drive,
My mother would propose the idea of moving
To us three children.

The idea of moving was exciting yet scary to me,
Being still under double digits in age.
The split-foyer house had always been my default refuge,
Where I always felt drawn to, if ever distant for however long.
The closet under the split-foyer stairwell, the red basement carpet,
The flowery wall paper tracing the walls of the second floor.
Knees bent on the off-white couch cushion in the family room
Spying on our front yard and the rows of houses,
Which columned to infinity from what I could see.
Friendly get-togethers, a Super Bowl XL bash, birthday parties,
The Japanese Juniper rooted towards the up-slanted corner of the black-tinted fence.
Our backyard’s deck with stairs, all that I would soon have to desert
For what seemed best at the time.
A room to myself sounded like a luxury,
But a lot of times, when things seem too good to be true in life,
I ponder if any strings are ever attached, invisibly at work.

All that we owned that had any contact with the McDonagh name,
Except for what kept the house together,
Either entered storage for an interim period of house-searching
Or tagged along to the Sun Crest apartments off Route 11-South.
I never thought I’d see our basement’s two-door, internally connected closet
Emptied and spacious enough to make circular paths in-and-out.
I remember the night that my family and I officially rode away
From the neighborhood property.
The glowing heart of the house, the foyer’s brown chandelier,
Discoed yellow-brown, unshapely-stretched reflections of light
Through the indented individual crystal-like brown glass
That cocooned the non-majestic lightbulbs inward.
As our van and family pulled away from the driveway,
Like the south pole of a magnet from the north pole,
All I had left to offer the house that provided me shelter and memories
Was a “this-isn’t-fair” glance as I leaned my head in the back seat of the van,
Resting my glasses on the backseat window as if some magnetism
Penetrated the glass to remind me that bonds, whether in science or love,
Don’t break easily.

In the summer of 2008, my family and I made the best
Out of the small apartment space,
Though thoughts of Wildflower Creek still lingered.
Many distractions befell me, however:
My 11th birthday party that July, jogging around our apartment building,
Video games, other visits with friends,
And, I cannot forget, the many houses I had to explore in the area
Before my parents settled on one and were not outbid by others.
Even though today I would not mind touring houses,
My mind was a million miles away from wanting to foot around stairs and rooms,
Even though it was necessary.

By the end of August 2008, we collectively agreed upon a house
And had many close neighbors help us move into a new familial abode.
The postal address claimed the area to be part of Kearneysville,
Though on the outskirts of Martinsburg.
This house, bricked-faced with touches of burgundy,
Was favored according to the equidistance
Regarding most of our out-of-house activities.

Assuredly enough, I have well-acquainted myself with this location by now,
My eyes always wanting to look out my bedroom window
To see the array of the day: the appearance of the outdoor skies,
The apex of the Veterans Affairs’ chapel building,
The gray fence of our posterior neighbor,
Two slender black-walnut trees intimately planted next to each other.
The Veterans Affairs facility’s bugle blows always annoyed me every 8 a.m.,
But, 10 years later, that’s the least of my troubles and I rarely hear it anymore myself.
At this point, I cannot tally all of the blessings that have entered this house
And that have come from establishing new roots under a new roof:
Two Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl appearances, the dawning growth of my outgoing spirit,
My theatre premiere, encountering new faces, learning how to drive in the Quad Graphics’ parking lot, taking advantage of new activities, visiting places I never thought I’d travel to,
The loss of our dog Jessie (2004-2013), the gaining of our present canine companion Bailey (b.2012), the election of Pope Francis, my first paid job, the arrival of the 2010’s;
My twelve-year Upward basketball legacy drew to a close in this Kearneysville residence (2004-2016); the historical election of President Barack Obama as the first president with African-American roots; even experiencing higher education in recent months.
This Kearneysville house has provided more than shelter; in its expansive vacuum and detailed
Indentations where potential dust may cling, this house has provided me
With the rest I need to continue life;
This house has helped me see
The profound blessing of the simple, ordinary mandatories.
In this house, I have been taught and disciplined
To implement my stewardship, to care with my own hands and being
In the hope that this dormant structure will continue to provide support
For my family circle and those to follow.
Sometimes I have been out the door so frequently
That this house has almost become less of “home.”

The impending decade-anniversary of family, house, and life
May never match a Rosary’s decade,
But both are met as devotions of resilience.
As a church official said,
“Home is a relationship more than a place.”
However, memories or relationships can take place
Under ceilings.
How much harder, as years progress,
Might it be to change my default houser?

During the years prior to high-school graduation,
It was never a “piece-of-cake”
To adjust back to reality. A.K.A. school, immediately following
Occasions, such as vacations, for any reason, or even ordinary weekends.
There’s also that event that took place during a “school night,”
Where the thought of have to “hit the books” the next day
Haunted my conscience amid focus and participation, as I knew
There never were many take-off extensions during the week.
I’d be one who tended
To stare out a window and fantasize
Of the arousals and feel-goods
From being around groups or plainly out of the house.
There were times where I’d stare
And picture still being with my grandparents in Pittsburgh
Upon arriving home from visiting them at their house.
On some Sundays, we’d host a family from our church
To watch football games, eat, chat,
And freeze-tag around the condensed square of yard
Shielding the Kearneysville property.
How could I have bounced right into school Monday
With thoughts of care-free run-arounds
And my loosened muscles on furniture while watching football
Still spinning in my head?
Is fun really a dream come true
Or is it a manipulative dream that speeds up during the good times
And slows down with the drags in life?
I’d even find myself adjusting to reality
Even if I were not the primal host at my house.
When either my parents or siblings
Would invite friends or other people distracting their attention to the house,
I’d always feel like I had the house to myself,
Their attention on the humane outlier making them invisible
And not focusing on my whereabouts or whodunits.
To me, stepping off the grass and back on the mud track of reality
Won’t always work the way it should,
Whether recovering from brief gathering events
Or rock concert trips.
I heard a Sunday sermon where the minister referred to humanity as each a “vacationer.”
Might that imply that reality is an effortful fantasy?  After all, don’t vacations require work too?

The kitchen table is at the right position
Where my family and I can leisurely face our eyes
In the direction of the clear-glass screen door that displays
Views of our backyard.

On the evening of March 16, I sat on the dark brown, black wooden chair at my usual curve of the table.
There are times where I sit and, though I cogitate “Get up! Get up!”, there are times where I just cannot collect the energy to rise from a still, muscle-relaxing pose.
The setting, yellow-white tint of the sun lured my soul to head outside, the natural character in me felt a need for.
Without delay, I zipped on my AHA sweater and capped my head with a retro blue-and-red Super Mario winter hat.
Opening the side door of the garage, the setting sun continued to lure my presence to still myself before its gentle mantle.
[At least there is no admission for seeing nature run its course!]

This evening scene of twilight I had to view seated on a purple cushion 90-degreed,
Unfolded on the outdoor swing.
I try not to let the urban sights of a barn shed, a house gated, dogs’ barks to my right
Derail my focus of natural concentration.
I learned in meditation once to just let noises and sights come as they please,
For they will have their exit.
I may not be a master at letting things go, but I kept meditative concentration
As the practice for the evening.

Every couple beats I would turn my eyes away from the westward sunset
To see if I noticed a lower sun and a higher indigo darkness.
Maybe I am not bound to the ascetic life, but I would not let the crispy, invisible chills
Of the evening winds chase me inside so easily, though the cold rush along the thighs of
My Lee jeans was a caveat that soon, Kearneysville would submerge into hours of a dark, polar void.

I tried to lose sense of the clock, so time would not be my focus in nature, which doesn’t go by Greenwich anyway.
The right amount of cold air lingered that night: enough to be outside for a while and enough to keep the pestiferous gnats away from my eyes.
No clouds passed my line of vision aimed at the ionosphere, and all the hues of the sun’s petering rays shone a “goodnight.”  This evening sun vanished in the optimistic vigilance that natural green scenes and Emerald green scenes were only one horizon away.