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by Lucy Freeman

This house has wrinkles. Sagging eyes and aching knees. Its squeals of excitement have turned into groans of effort. Checkered tiles cement their palace in the time capsule.

Thresholds between worlds have been negotiated The rain gets weekend visitations in the summer while the heat slips through window sills each winter. Some travellers seem to have gained dual-residency.

Each time a member of the house is retired, others take a stand in protest. The router held a sit-in for a week after the stove was replaced, and the fridge started to drip upon the Keurig’s arrival.

These floors have been trampolines and racetracks and runways and cradles. These walls are now bones of an aged mother, the rippled drywall weathered muscles. She has raised her child well. She welcomed tents into the living room, tap shoes in the kitchen. Rollerblades with cabinets as brakes. She stored songs in the glass for safekeeping, playing them as whistles of wind when the world seemed too heavy. Though she may have cracks and swells and patched up bits, her foundation is ever-grounded. Solid. Strong. The best thing she could pass on.