sweet home

I listen to the distant rush of wind across the mouth of the chimney, and I trace the staccato rhythm of light as it skips across the carpet. My sister strums a guitar in her bedroom upstairs, starts and stops in the refreshingly frank way of those unashamed of the learning curve.

My eyes drink in. My eyes well up. The rich wood, the textures of fabric, the contours of familiar faces.

A new sound: a tiny antique clock marks the seconds, grabs them and proceeds.

Last night my sisters flitted off to youth group and my father to a prayer meeting while my mother and I occupied opposite couches and observed the waning light. We spoke of movies, child development, education, my grandfather's cancer. She asked about men. The sky above the church blushed but we did not. There were pauses. I grabbed a book and she a newspaper. The seconds ticked on. We talked about going out but didn't. My father joined us. We drank coffee. We yawned. We just sat. For a long, long time. Until the sky was utterly black and a chill had fallen.

Since I've last come home, my parents have replaced the kitchen's dusty blue paint with a warm muted yellow. Below the chair rail are vertical white stripes that transition to a picket fence in the hallway. Over Christmas, I am to paint vines here, but for now the white picket fence stands without irony, marking the idyll.