Home

You were my shelter.
I was broken and I walked through your front door,
Sauntered in like I owned the place, Noting the cobwebs and the
Virgin Mary, holding her newborn baby  as she
hung next to the porch light.
Your floors were tile.
The walls were bare except for a single dirt outline of a shoe,
Where someone had mercilessly murdered a crane fly.
Your backyard was weed covered,
full of dirt and drywall.
Speckled by dandelions
that had yet to turn into
wishes.
In your tiny bedroom,
a window air conditioner,
Which betrayed the antique look
of the rest of the place.
I was broken.
When I signed the papers,
I collapsed on your floors.
This was the first time I had cried in weeks.
You stood silently over me,
Listening to the sound
of my gut wrenching sobs
as they echoed in your tiny spaces.
You made me feel safe.
I started to take care of things
Did the dishes,
folded laundry,
Hung pictures and made the bed.
The Virgin Mary and
baby Jesus watched,
because I could never bring myself
to remove them.
And you were ever watchful, ever silent. Standing vigilant.
You were there the day
I opened the front door
and left to go to the store,
And came back five minutes later because my water had broke
and the life that grew
within me had decided it was time.
Time was all I had with you,
after he was born.
You were there when
he laughed for the first time,
Ate his first solid foods
and when he learned how to walk.
You protected us.
You kept us close during storms and Watched us grow.
You stood by when
I went to school
And held me up when
more papers came for me to sign.
The day I left you,
You didn't cry,
But I expect you felt a sadness
because you knew
it was time for us to move on.
As I shut your front door
for the last time,
I whispered goodbye.
You were once again left empty,
Just as I had discovered you,
Two years before,
Ready and waiting for
someone new
To call you home
Once more.