Life is a spiral, with one circle ending and another simultaneously beginning; layering and weaving thick histories and memories that ultimately makeup our very personal stories.
My own personal story is evolving once again, as I prepare to move into a new house; the house of my dreams; the sort of place where writers create and imagine and bring to life another overlapping circle of alternate characters and plots.
So I wrote this, a poem of the end of one such circle—meeting the beginning of another.
It’s soft sunlight, with husband holding my face between thick fingers and rays of setting, kitchen-evening sun.
It’s wife-opening heartache of new opportunities to flail terribly against currents of crisp thresholds.
It’s mommyheart kisses, scraped hands, falling on new porch steps.
It’s Christmas-tree lighting in a different nook near cold, slowly-warming-from-coming-inside memories of pink cheeks and snow-trodden shoe-print trails, dragged across another worn wooden floor.
It’s hips swaying, music driving, new stovetop bubbling, different sink washing, apron-hanging kitchen dancing routines.
It’s possibilities and dreams nestled tightly into fresh corners of my family circle; it’s feet carving grooves that will spin a deeper domestic heartbeat.
Photo: Flickr/Meg Wills.