From where I sit
I see piles
of folded laundry
waiting to be put away.
Mail on the counter.
Library books
(some overdue)
towering on the table near the door.
Shoes…
So. Many. Shoes.
Some matching
one next to the other.
Most strewn randomly across the floor
thoughtlessly cast-off
after the last adventure.
Abandoned
until the next.
Sometimes
in the morning
dishes in the sink
from dinner
the night before.
Other evidence
of years’
relentless activity.
No time
to clean up afterward.
Fingerprints on windows.
Not to mention walls
brown in places
a decade
of hands tracing around corners.
Banister loose
from tightrope-walking
and other
questionable
front-hall gymnastics.
Outside,
the garden
once a perennial wonderland
now choked by weeds and grasses.
A blueberry bush still bears some berries
just a few.
The driveway has its own garden
growing
between asphalt cracks
in front of automatic garage doors
unlikely to close
as renegade weeds
confuse the sensor.
But also,
a basketball hoop
bravely withstanding
scores of backboard rim-shots.
Treehouse,
built by father and sons
tree-trunk ladder and trap door
well-used.
A shelter
for intricate role-playing games.
Trampoline
ragged with use
littered with fallen leaves
ready for a bounce
when the mood strikes.
Back garden,
also overgrown
though less so
after one child’s concerted effort
to banish invasive grapevines
earning a bit of pocket money
in the bargain.
Inside,
life spills
over every square inch.
Cards from a recent game
on the floor.
Books-in-progress
left on the table after breakfast.
Chairs displaced
set wherever
the last activity happened to be.
Art projects on the refrigerator
display
fine motor skills
and wild differences in creative expression.
Pictures in frames
show toddlers and young children
where teenagers now reside.
And food.
You wouldn’t think
three people could eat so much.
In truth
two do most of the eating.
How much fruit can two boys consume?
There are days
when every cell in my body
screams
“I cannot do this for another moment!”
But then
from the other room
“Mom?”
That’s all it takes.
A single syllable
“Mom?”
The sound of my heart
opening.
