Am I Home?

Is this grandma’s house

yet made brand new again? 

The sagging porch and broken rails

are mended.

Torn screen door is replaced,

anew.

Floors still creak 

with footsteps of many visitors past and present,

but they sparkle, clean.

Grime is washed away.

I wish I could have done that for her

mother tried.

It was tight and dusty, 

but it was a safe space,

like a comfortable bed.

Work boots, pots and pans, 

dog bowls, wash basins, ledgers, 

a dark pantry, the corner radio, 

and the kitchen table where she managed everything.

The couch sagged with sorrow.

Work, sit, knit, rock, sleep.

It was a quiet and simple place.

Could I be home?

The clutter and mess are made into art,

just as I would have done for her.

Grandma’s house from long ago has been washed fresh

by salt breeze.

Sunlight thoroughly bleached the yellowed walls. 

Removed is the misery and pain

once brushed under the rug and swept into corners.

There is space and light.

A feeling of release and renewal.

Am I home?

The oak tree seedlings are sprouting.

Palmetto fronds peek from the sand.

Rocking chairs sway on the south porch.

In the early morning, 

a sparrow’s call rings true,

“I am home, I am home, I am home.”