The Home Maker

I carry my home in a tablecloth

Corners stretched taut across my aching back

The burden daily yoked

As we run from where home used to be

As we wait for where it may be again

I shoulder the remnants

the fraying fabric of that time

Of that place no longer home

And probably, never home again

As we walk or wait and watch

I remember what once was

Home: a deep, contented sigh

The comfort of embracing arms

A rootedness in knowing

Security of being known

But there’s danger in looking back

This desert sucks up souls

Their plastic tents and water jugs

Can’t protect us from our grief

From ourselves

So my persistence exists

Not in mourning home that was

Nor in wanting what home may be

But in redefining home-that-is

Now:

Home feels like chafing, rubbing raw at my neck

Its embrace is tight around my middle

Its security a knot above my hip

I find comfort in the clinging cloth that carries my now-home

Its sturdiness steadies me,

Settles me

As its heaviness increases

So too does my cautious hope

I carry my home in a tablecloth

My baby nestled against my back

(My only child that survived)

She now knows no home but me

So I make home

because I am home.

I am home.