In this house

We wash. We water. We spray. We scrub. We arrange and rearrange and re-rearrange all of our things. 

There are piles of papers for keeping, and a paper bag of paper for recycling. There is something sitting in the kitchen sink, while notes of coffee, eggshell, and citrus skin sing from the compost bin. This house hugs our clutter, holds it all within its walls: worn out/outgrown clothing, books, soaking oatmeal pots, notebooks, pencils, pillows, and plants. This house holds an old refrigerator, a handbuilt bread box, a long table, paintings, photographs, mirrors, latching doors, and steep stairs. Its walls of plaster and paint are scarred from hammers and nails, tacks, tape, and second-hand furniture. Oh, if these walls could talk, how they would laugh! Through the windows, winter sun washes in, mid-morning floods that pour slanted shadows across our breakfast crumbs. And so we sweep. We vacuum. We wash. 

In this house, there is silence and stillness and sweetness. There is sleep and there is sleeplessness. There is utter boisterousness - a whole wilderness of silliness. There is electronic pop music for dancing and princess soundtracks for twirling. Often, a folk music soundscape plays. There is the sound of highway, wind, stove, and storm. There is brilliant witty banter and there are bathroom jokes. There is deep discussion, celebration, and storytelling. There are fits and wailing, warm snuggling, tickling, and improvised singing. 

In this house, magic happens. There is a baby with sharp pearls pushing up through his gums, urging him to bite everything - the coffee table, the rugs, our wooden blocks, my breasts, and his father's chest. He comes at us with his mouth long. 

"Here! Bite this!" I plead, pressing something soft and safe into his sore mouth. 

This baby belly laughs, trills his lips, sings, yells, and crawls one hundred miles an hour. He reaches and stands up like a mountain climber - chairs, tables, and couches, his cliffs. 

In this house, magic happens. There is a child with immense creative intelligence. A story builder, a performer, a dancer, she is entirely herself and yet still, a stunning mystery. 

The other night, she told me she would love me forever. All because I lied beside her. My body is something she loves. "Cuddle me, Mama!" She begged, and I did. 

Is not that magic?