Thank you, Father… for home.
For strong refuge against gusty winds that billowed early morning before the sun, when the hard-working-one had long left for work.
For warmth inside walls of imperfection.
Cracked and cobwebbed. Handprinted and smeared. Paint too tired to keep its luster.
For happiness amidst clutter of grand proportions.
For littered and forgotten floor, upon which happy ones play and dance and ‘skate’ in socked feet.
For table scratched and dented. Ridden with memories of meals and family and games and learning. Never empty. And too small now, for its many guests clamoring around in mismatched seating.
For mounds of laundry so lofty and rife, it leaves wonder if small village is left without covering.
For countertops never empty. And sinks even more so.
For bathrooms never fit for magazines… or guests. Tissue roll ever waning, waste pail overflowing. Toothpaste splattered mirrors.
For beaten couches and loved-worn blankets never refolded. For books always escaping their nest.
For the peaceful, fleeting feeling of something dusted or swept… only to be lived in again.
Thank you for home.