A Poem about Home
Just a few nights after my mother died, my sister Ellen and I were driving to a hotel near the small cottage at a senior community where my parents have lived since 2013. "What are we going to do? Mom was home." she said. "I feel homeless," I said. It is true. Our mother's heart was our port in the storm, an open welcome, a space of rest and respite. The bricks and mortar surrounding her didn't matter. She, herself, made us feel safe and loved, always and unconditionally. I came across this poem by Ruth Carr, that reminds me of our family home, and even more of our mom: There is a House there is a house whose door will not close in my face where there will always be a place for one more at the table. there is a house that lets in light all the year round even in the winter the weakest of suns reaches in. there is a house with walls that hold me like branches with a roof of summer leaves and roots that go deep. there is a house