I Am Home

Rebecca York

episode 22

I feel you breathing — 
 my house. 
 
 The neighbors go about 
 their daily chores 
 the screen doors slamming 
 and engines revving 
 and bicycles flying by 
 carrying young boys with attitudes; 
 
 but underneath all of that 
 I feel you breathing. 
 
 With the breath of people 
 who lived here — centuries ago… 
 lifetimes ago… 
 before the automobile, 
 before the moonwalk, 
 before progress. 
 
 When life was simple 
 and you wrapped 
 your wood and plaster arms 
 securely 
 around a family. 
 
 The children ran on the stairs 
 sliding down the banister 
 in secret -
 dressed in giggles. 
 Christmas pine and candles 
 filled the house with meaning 
 and kindness. 
 
 Life, death all arrived and departed,
 yet you stood sturdy 
 through joy and sorrow 
 and in some places,

on your insides and outsides -
 you shed a tear or two. 
 
 Hot summer days, rocking 
 on the front porch 
 in creaky wicker chairs, 
 the lemonade flowed freely 
 as did good humor 
 and friendly conversation. 
 Thanksgiving dinners and 
 Easter suppers — 
 chopping, baking, boiling feasts

in your humble kitchen; 
 the oven steamed 
 your windows 
 on a frosty eve. 
 
 Lovers held each other 
 in an ancient bed of strong wood, 
 pillows overflowing, 
 society unknowing, 
 and their passion, wine-stained 
 and tender. 
 
 I feel you breathing, 
 Welcoming me into your care. 
 Telling me -

I am home — at last.