Within the White

The whisper of home has always been within the white. Mundanely consistent. Familiarly static–like the back of my hand or the clouds that drumroll the rain after the taste meets my tongue.

It is the picket fence–painted with my father. Complaining between each stroke with the timbre of my teenaged voice. The latch I thought held me in like a birdcage– now–a haven that taught me how to nest. Flying back–not often enough–to thank the mouths that fed me. In spite of unfair weather, wet feathers.

It is the tonsils–swollen without swallow. Mom's homemade tea–lemon, ginger, honey. Rubbing my back with a warmth beyond touch. Sickness, but solitude. Little Women 1949, reciting the script in my mind. I am selfish, the youngest of four rarely gets her mother to herself. My throat still hurts, mom. I need one more day.

It is the paper sheets–worlds past the curves of the letters. My most loyal friend. Keeping secrets like the mints at the bottom of my grandmother's purse. The dust off an old book–like ecstasy to the nose that never leaves the spine unopened. Maybe the words read me, for they seem to know me just as well.

It is the piano keys–the only second language I speak. First loves always bury into you–reminding you at the most inconvenient times–how much interwoven you are. The nagging do re mi that circles in my mind, begging me to sit with it, to ponder the music that bends in unison with my mood.

It is the hair–tucked behind the soon-deaf ears of my grandfather. Combing–slick–a style religiously worn like a helmet. Gel left unwashed–hug with a stick–asking me to speak up, speak up, child. Yelling with a teasing annoyance, "I said I love you, grandpa!" I watch another hair fall from his head, drifting away with his mind.

It is the teeth–revealing the laughter bursting from his shaking belly. My lover bound to my chest. A laugh, a tone that unifies nations–but his is my favorite. I'd recognize it even in the claustrophobia of Union Station. A bell that I can pull out and ring to fill our days with sweetness. No one rings it like I.

It is the dress–vintage lace, something borrowed. The shoe fits–finally. Clicking down the aisle, standing face to face. The heels making me taller, but he never minds. Twirling until he unzips the back. The next morning–to hang in the closet that our clothes share, waiting for our daughter to age with the seasons and try it on with her schoolyard crush in her eyes.

It is the stretch marks–the scars I used to despise. Now–a road map to all the plans I have for her. Trickling, spiraling, evermore. My skin stretched for her–thick and resilient. My womb, a strength beyond lions. Yet, I crumble with the school day leaves. My tears cloud her rearview mirror as she drives into her future. May will come soon. She will come home.