Anybody`s House

　　The deceased shall come forth by day, purified after death

　　You know the feeling of coming home,

　　stepping out of your worn street shoes and

　　leaving the dust and dirt at the door,

　　twisting the familiar knob, lock, key

　　as you feel the familiar chip of baby-blue

　　paint and wood leave residue

　　on your hands, heart. My house has

　　followed me here, to the outer reaches

　　of living. A stretch as long as horizons

　　and slanted shines of sunlight greets me

　　before I reach the windows and doors—If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it`s taken without the author`s consent. Report it.

　　home topping the ragged cliffs and waves

　　and sand of eternity. The line is linked by people,

　　clutching each other`s hands. Family. Friends.

　　People I don`t have a name to but who I know

　　as well as I know the creases and folds

　　of my own two hands. They dazzle like

　　stars, a glittering trail pointing to the

　　familiar front door. The house of my

　　ancestors` ancestors. A house built not on bones,

　　but hoped-for dreams, little moments

　　and quiet kindness. My wife and I will

　　hold hands in the stairwell again.

　　My brother and I will play hide-and

　　-seek in between the fluffy couch pillows.

　　My daughter will take her first steps

　　on the pale kitchen tiles, bright as

　　fresh, speckled farm eggs nesting

　　on the cool countertop.

　　Look through the windows—

　　the lights are all on.

　　Someone is home.