Saturday, September 29, 2012

It takes a heap 'o livin' in a house 't make it a home...



Words I've always known to be true, but sinking truer on this night, especially.


He lays long forgotten train tracks, filling and spreading out all over this floor. This room. 

Twenty years worth of memories wash over me. 


He begs me to iron his spiffy duds because he knows I'll get it right for this big date. So I do and then he remembers, twenty minutes before his pal comes to pick him up before they head off to pick up their dates, he remembers in a panic that he'd forgotten that he needed buttons sewed onto those skinny gray pants of his. A requirement for suspenders. 
 
A new fashion trend? Maybe, but either way, I love the look. So I scramble and we fuss over him. Getting him out the door. And before he pulls away, I run the essential and forgotten corsage out to the car. 





She brings her room mates home so they can cook up a storm. Cooking up a Mexican food fiesta dinner for her church congregation to share. So proud of this girl's confidence and can do attitude to take on such a task. 

So they crank up their tunes and chop and dice and talk and laugh. And I'm thrilled to share in their joy and their talk and fix up my own offering for them to take a much needed break. To fill their bellies. To fill their souls.

 "It's so nice to be in a real home. With a mom. To eat a real meal!"




... A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam
Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind,
An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.
It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,
How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

~Edgar Albert Guest