A woman holding a poppy flower behind her back

If these walls could talk
As the saying goes—
The home of my youth
Would speak of my growth

Tales of popsicle hands,
sandy toes,
And summers beneath the garden hose

Guests come from near and far—
Settled down for a season

A place to call home,
Without any reason

If these walls could talk
They would cry as well
As a witness to the end of a full life
And the stories my grandfather would tell

If these walls could talk, they’d say
“You’re safe to just be.
I’ll listen to you talk,
And protect you while you sleep”

A tear would slowly fall
—disguised as a leak—
As the walls are stripped bare
And packed into a brown box sea

To the bones of my house
I am forever indebted
For memories of the life lived in the safety of these walls
Will never be forgotten nor neglected

If these walls could talk
They might humbly suggest
It is not the walls at all
That made this house its best

With every move
To new houses and neighborhoods,
I feared I might lose the memory of this place
Swept away with adulthood
A white truck duo parked out front
Stacked high with brown boxes
I turn to my walls
And count my both my memories and losses

Whispering to me,
My walls let me in
On a secret that only they held
These walls aren’t the end

Home, they said
Is the space to just be
The place to exhale
Where strivings cease

It is like the sun
Faithful at dusk to set
And rise every morning at dawn
With each steady breath

Whether in the form of a building or a friend
Home is a full heart
Settled in countless places
Held within the space of familiar faces

Image via Marlow Amick

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