Bread crumbs

My sister and brother and I are the oldest living generation.  It seems to me that we are now on the path back home.  At least that*s what it feels like.  Each of us is very different, yet each of us is so darned independent.  I know we will arrive home from different directions.  Of course home will have the same address, but look different.  It always does.  Perhaps we*ll remember how to do the dishes... together.

There was no set path away from home,

So we each made our own.

We dropped bread crumbs

On the way into the woods.

They were eaten by birds.

We encountered terror

In sugared gingerbread houses

It threatened to bake us alive

In ovens.

It didn*t.

We escaped.

Now we each find a different path

Out of the woods.

The bread crumbs have been eaten.

We are on our way

Back to our father*s house.

Back to our mother*s house.

Our paths will converge again

When we get there.

He will be there to welcome us home.

She will be there

To welcome us home.

The house will smell like fresh bread

Baking.

There will be flowers from the garden

On every table.

There will be sunlight streaming

Through every window.

We will know then what it is

To be fully welcomed.

We will each be there.

We will wash and dry and put away

The dishes.