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.