Our House

Our House (Draft 2. Final draft on substack)

A house starts as four lines,

a red, crayon, box shape with my five-year-old hand's

signature stroke. Three decades later,

my eldest daughter would switch to green to

draw her triangle top. Her younger brother

will add twin teal smaller squares,

will divide them into fourths. 

My mother's eyes should recognize

how these windows represent the promise 

of known depth, but they don't. The only thing I know?

My youngest, a daughter, will not be satisfied.

Not until, passing that five-year-old-threshold,

she scrawls pink and purple flowerbeds on the right side,

on the left.

In time, for all of us, the shapes move,

the colors layer. Our crayon melts into something

we, a kaleidscopic household, can't quite control.

Something neither my nose nor their father's

can quite smell. Sure, whether here or there,

time will be measured in dollars and cents. 

Perhaps, like on our broken marriage license,

each name on the lease is simply

Courage.

Foolishly, he and I both grab our binoculars.

We try to inventory the urban fowl,

assess the longevity of the city-street

trees, justify our claim to the space we hold

in the borderlands of our children's Childhood.

We square our inches and feet, once,

no, two times over just to be certain. Certain? 

Is it the backyard, the washing area, 

the bathroom sink? What 

at this pitch, wears 

that crown-title

Our House?