Gravity of Home

Maybe it’s that one crack at the edge of the driveway that I have been looking over my shoulder at for a dozen years… it hasn’t changed as much as I have, but any sign of movement and I will be all over it… it teases me as it hosts random grasses and weeds…

Maybe it’s the crepe myrtle trees that line my driveway… over the years I have watched the paper-like bark peel back in a jigsaw pattern and flake to the ground. They have finally reached the point that they hold hands overhead as the spring winds aid them in their dance…

Maybe it’s the family cat that squints her eyes at me as I walk by her at a leisurely pace… she naps close to the side door of the house so she can be alerted to any action that may arise that would be to her benefit…

Maybe it’s the side door of the house that has shadowed the entry of family and friends for a generation… it has been pulled and pushed upon by the young and by our elders. It has been a swing… a backstop for soccer when no one was looking… it has taken punishment from many and has given bruises and bumps to a few. It has been drilled upon, primed, painted countless times, caulked and re-caulked… and yet it stands as our protector and as our easement…

Maybe it’s the kitchen that has been the center of our home since we first cooked grilled cheese for the first time together… it has been a gathering place for peering eyes… for curious on-lookers… it has been a place to find children under feet… and a vestige of solitude when the pressure cooker has whistled its children’s siren of warning… it has been the playground for cards… jacks… for toss and for tag… it has been the slow simmer of a blessed family roast and the solitude of a boiling pot for a quiet and soothing cup of tea…

Maybe it’s the family room that seems to collect items from every closet and space throughout the house… the games… the toys and clothes… it is the room of togetherness and of solitude… the room of Thanksgiving and of Christmas morning… of Easter baskets and Mother’s day surprises… it is the room of stolen kisses and of secrets… secrets of youth and secrets of innocence…

Maybe it’s the hallway that adorns the photograph that once hung in the home of my grandfather… the picture of the Cat… that Cat… a cat that has seen better days… a picture that my family held and admired for countless years… the picture that I adjust every now and then as it tilts its aging corners to the left or to the right. The memory of my grandfather thrusts itself into my fingertips every time I touch it…

Maybe it’s the bedrooms that have cared for and nurtured my offspring… the rooms of giggles and of laughter… at times the rooms of sorrow and of pain… the rooms filled with treasures and collectibles… the items that make us who we are… who we want to be… and of what we want to remember…

Maybe it‘s the squeak of the hinge of the bathroom door…the texture of the walls… the colors of our lives… the joys of our togetherness… the disappointments and triumphs… the pull I feel no matter where I go… the pull that is like the river to the sea… slow and steady… always focused toward its goal…

Maybe it’s every tree and shrub we have planted, watered, nourished and cared for… maybe it’s the shadows that play chase with the sun against the green grass…

Maybe it’s the dove I hear in the distance that pulls me to my youth… maybe it’s the love I feel from this place… the familiarity that my children feel... or the ease and comfort their friends feel when they are greeted as one of us. There is always laughter… always love… always a meal and a place to rest…

Maybe it’s all of this… maybe it is some of this. The gravity of our home keeps me in tune with the rights of this world and nudges me away from the wrongs… Maybe it is love… Maybe it is life…

Shannon R Killman