The Homestead

You were built in 1928.

Wood that holds your frames is now petrified,

Solid and impenetrable, ask the screws for the lock.

Leaded glass cabinets hold heirloom China in sloping cradles.

Silverware in a lined wooden box sat tucked away under the window seat.

Floors of wood that have seen four generations,

Scraped, scuffed and sanded thin,

Groaning and complaining like joints in the ancients.

Walls covered in decades of wallpaper and paint still hold the scent of White Diamonds and coffee.

Time spent cleaning out the back bedroom

A room that housed the hardest working man ever met.

The man that worked hard for everything he brought home and..

A legacy none met, have touched.

Praying those nights in September for a miracle,

An outcome that you could embrace but only finding comfort from the memories

Stored in the pictures he captured.

Melamine and particle board bookshelves hold the collections of cookbooks

Thousands of recipes that may never be made

Black History tomes resting,

Each reminding us of a past that fights to be heard more than one month a year.

Memories of the Matriarch

A huge 4 foot, 11 inches that filled space brighter than the stars can illuminate the cosmos.

A two-step dance from side to side, cajoling “You don’t know about this!”

Holiday dinners spread from kitchen to dining room

Even taking up space on the lonely buffet sat unassumingly against the wall

It with the front cabinets that jammed shut from lack of use.

The sounds of gospel songs sang by a voice

Tired as the wind howling at the mountains of West Virginia.

Another year sat and reflected for peace and mercy.

Sounds of a rubber tipped aluminum cane thudding across the porch

As leaves from the neighbor’s tree encase three yards in red and orange foliage

Pleasantries exchanged and gossip flowed across the driveway

Lawn mowers and men waxing cars to decorate the street like shiny baubles on a Christmas tree.

Long as the weather held up

Background music of chirping birds coaxed the tenants to clean the bird bath and fill it with water

Human made chirps conversing with the avian visitors in rapt attention

Watching merrily as they splashed and bathed in the cool, shimmering liquid.

Oldies but goodies competed with smooth jazz as the men worked in their garages

Tinkering on old lawn equipment pausing their self-made, undisclosed home and garden shows.

Children rode bike laughing as wind rushed through the spokes treating them to sound of speed

The antics of Victor Neuman, Asa Buchanon, Helena Cassidine and Stefano caught the house dwellers attention as lunch was prepared.

Cries from the worn couch as children came in and out periodically. Letting out their “good air” and shouts of “You’re either in or you’re out but, you aren’t going in and out my house!”

The thrill of racing to beat the streetlights as they came on before the tenants could look for the wayward flock.

Comments of “You need to shower! You smell like outdoors.” Before being shooed off to the nearest empty bathroom.

The old wood, ten plus layers of wallpaper glue and dry wall hold this collection like the Alexandria library.

Even when damaged, its legacy still viable, passed down in photos and words.

A dwelling does not make a place a home.

It’s the feelings and people inside

The memories held inside

Make the place

Home.