there is something about
being home
that just makes me
incredibly happy.
my house is not fancy…hell…
it’s not even finished.
half a string of christmas lights
still hang over the door
and bang against the window
but i like the little flash of bright colors
against the white of the snow outside.
i have water damage on the ceiling
and a makeshift ramp
to get to the leaking
front door…the same front door
you have to slam
to make sure it’s shut.
there’s a pumpkin head
with a top hat that was carved out of
one of our trees years ago
and i can’t bear to move it…
the kitchen faucet sprays like a geyser
and the countertop is broken…
one plug doesn’t work
and i am missing light fixtures
and baseboard
and have a couple holes in the wall…
oh. and i am pretty sure something might be
living
in the attic but i try not to think about that.
yet there is no place else i want to be.
every hole, every crack, every broken bit
holds a memory...a funny story…
a secret no one else knows.
i am home
and the freezing rain is pelting
against the windows,
the cat is sleeping on my computer chair,
the heater ticks and whirs behind me
while i listen to ben howard
and click away at the keyboard
thinking about how
happy i am
to be home.
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