My clammy palms on the white marble countertop, 

purple veins extending into those of the stone,

dodging apple juice stains and stray crumbs.

 

My tired legs next to the popping fire,

combusting in the face of the heat but still,

too comfortable to leave.

 

My body as I sit on a 

stiff leather couch,

overlooking a valley through

glass that is transformed into

a mirror by the reflection of the

warm light of the lamp next to me.

 

The empty spot next to me,

occupied only by a wrinkle in the cream leather,

reminiscent of an ocean with a single wave,

longing for a ship to sail its seas.

 

The skeleton of the veiny marble and stiff leather

is what drives me

like the engine of the shiny car

that sits readily in the garage,

the car that races through a channel of green lights that

hug the horizon,

ushering me down the road at sunset like

my family down a church pew on Sunday.

 

 

Home:

the feeling that drives me,

propels me,

thrusts me through

the tears, the smiles, and

the thought that one day

my mother won’t be there when I open the door

and toss my backpack onto the oak bench my father built.

The feeling that drives me through

the thought that one day

my dog won’t be there, galloping excitedly towards me,

cued by the clinking of my keys on the dinner table.

 

My husband’s hand, 

still icy from the night’s breath.

Cold like the feeling of the parking lot of

my Catholic church against the

damned souls of my tired shoes

where I stood,

bewildered by the echoes of the bells

that rung as loudly in my head

as the voices that told me I was wrong,

wondering 

wishing

longing

hoping

curiously,

Faithfully,

if I would ever get to feel the frigid hands 

of my Husband.

 

My daughter’s soft hands

patting the floor as she crawls excitedly towards me,

giggling happily.

Happily enough to make me smile.

Happily enough to make me cry.

My husband next to me,

evicting the wrinkle from the leather of

the empty cushion.

 

My five year old noggin nuzzled in between

my mother’s arms as she read to me about

the very hungry caterpillar,

who stomped around 

those little green leaves.

He stumbled around,

lost in a green maze,

bound in a white coffin,

only to realize

that the coffin was the door

to a new future— a new home.

A home he thought was out of his

little caterpillar reach.