The house where I’m home

[Mary Ann]

This is written about my friends home.
My friend is an older lady...who's really looked after me, I always have room in her house.
I'm grateful to have such a good friend....but I also feel grief that I wasn't born to this couple, who are old enough to be my parents, but far more functional than my family ever were.
I wish I could say this to my friend, or let her read this...but I can't, I'm too scared.
I'm going to worry after I post this, in case she or anyone reads it and knows who I'm speaking about...that she'd be unhappy with me for writing it...

      The house where I'm home:
I hadn't been for a few weeks
To the house where I'm home,
And I'd missed it...missed THEM,
I can explain, if asked, the long dead pictures on the walls
Pour out stories rich as wine,
Holidays I never went on, dogs I didn't walk
Re telling with relish, this history, not even mine.
And yet I wear it with pride, and gratitude
Like borrowed clothes,
Of a warm fine fabric, I could never afford
When my own are ripped and filthy, a thing to be ashamed of,
And even on a good day were ugly, never fitted
So for this I will always give thanks.

I love my room
In the house where I'm home..
The brown dimpled bed smells of washing powder, and safety,
It stands under shelves of books and albums,
Full of smiling gap toothed children that aren't me
With eyes of a different texture to mine
With a simpler cleaner story.
Only my axe in the corner, my toothbrush
Shows I live there sometimes, hide even.
Yet they refer to it as —-xxx— room
And for that I will always give thanks.

He was driving back
To the house where I'm home,
And he saw me and waved, smiled absently, thinking of breakfast.
It made me sit up gladly,
Taller on my bike, back straighter,
Heart lighter, though we didn't even speak.
I'd wanted him to see me, and he had.
Mistakenly people say 'your Mum' or 'your Dad', meaning them
And smiling, I put them right, or I don't,
I allow myself to wonder what my life would have been,
While I try, but fail to give thanks.

The woman at the heart of the house where I'm home,
Is small, she seems smaller every month
Yet she's woven through the fabric of that family,
Or like letters shot through Seaside Rock,
Pink letters spelling out nothing but good,
And I watch her carefully, waiting for the bad
But it doesn't come! Undemonstrative, even tempered
She gets anxious, but not bitter,
I find it strange, she just accepts how people are.
Her lipstick is plain, pinky beige, almost dull,
But it's the ONLY thing about her that is!
Tastefully quirky rainbow buttons,
Appliqué flowers, woven  with beads.
And I watch with wonder, in the pause of the morning,
As she paints her chipped nails Parma violet, to sixties sounds.
Always cooking, still always busy,
But she stops to listen..she sees me!
And for this I will always give thanks.

I hadn't been for a few weeks
To the house where I'm home
And I'd missed them...missed HER
With a scary, fierce kind of longing,
Didn't dare to think of them, or picture her face,
Out of fear that the scalding tears would come,
Or the beast in my head would wake, snarling.
I found her in the kitchen, as always,
Her silver hair, dyed blonde and going limp in the heat,
She turned and faced me, a bowl in her hands
'What you making?' I asked quietly, eyeing the custard and fruit.
'.....Trifle? But it's Wednesday!'
'Well....' she smiled at me, almost modestly
'It's your first Wednesday back......' the words hanging
Like the steam in the air
Sponge smothered in Sherry,
Thick with cream and topped with almonds.
He would eat it mostly...it wasn't really for me!
Yet the softness in her face, her eyes was.
After tea, I fled..lump in my throat,
And there, into the pillow
Smelling of soap powder, and safety,
I cried over a trifle.

[rainydiary]

I felt comfort in reading about home and the folks that gave you care.  I hope that you find a way to let them know what they've meant if it feels right to do so.