Monday, September 12, 2011

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.

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