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Monday, July 4, 2011

where children grow





entrance

they came through the door
into the room for mud
little jackets hung on small hooks
little boots strewn across the floor


always there was mud
and clothes that don't want to stay hung
and shoes of some sort
strewn across the floor


kitchen
 the sun streams through the window
through the blurred prints of hands
onto the kitchen table
where children grow
on bread and honey


sunlight filters through the frosted glass
as we sit at supper,
arguing over who should pray
all hands reaching for the milk
all voices asking for butter
all of the family speaking a kaleidescope of sound



living room
 there was a place for horses, and giants, and jumping, and camels
where Daddys chase and Mommys tumble
across the carpet
and little ones giggle and hide in the curtains
and sometimes there are Christmas trees
with babies sleeping underneath the twinkling lights;


stairway
on the stairs, a million parades
of dinosaurs
of little boys who can't sleep
of thunderous feet propelled by some strong childhood sense of fear or anger 
of children waking from sleep to play, to draw, to eat, to laugh
of girls escaping kitchen duty
of little boys riding watermelons
of friends whispering their way to a hideaway
of tired footsteps going up to rest
of young women slipping through the gate of childhood






We left this house in 2002 ... this house where my children grew.
We've lived in a 'new' home in Saskatoon for nine years, and this house holds such different sounds and memories. Our oldest son turns 17 tomorrow ... my watermelon riding, dinasaur stomping son has grown into a fine young man, and this house holds those sights and sounds.
Happy birthday tomorrow, Adam.

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