In My Mother’s House

In my mother’s house

We sleep on starched sheets

Ironed with loving care by aging hands.

In my mother’s house

We are family.

We are guests

Who sleep in a room on a bed

Strewn with our favorite magazines

Carefully placed by our host

So we may be prepared to discuss the contents and more.

In my mother’s house

We eat sweet treats

My Papa D stirs the dough to make his DSV cookies

(AKA madeleines).

Mum reclaims her Southern Roots

With her lemon cake.

She bakes.

He bakes.

We eat.

Devour.

Taking seconds and thirds.

This stuff is out of this world.

With pristine espresso cups we toast to

Memories of London

To us.

These hosts are the most.

In my mother’s house

We sleep until the waft of bacon stirs us

And we drift downstairs to chow down on

Waffles made with love

And warm, melted butter

And syrup

Filling each nook with such

Tenderness and Delight

I think I might

Just eat them all.

In my mother’s house

The conversations last for hours.

We debate over taking showers.

Politics

War

Peace

Religion

Race

Very few can keep up with our pace as we

Digest

Dissect

Pontificate

and Gesticulate

In my mother’s house

I am 9, 19, 29, 39, 49, and 59

Child, adolescent, adult, and elder

But always her daughter.

In my mother’s house

We are always

Learning

Preaching

Teaching

We tour the newest interior designs

And awe-inspiring projects

That make the house a home.

Their home.

Her home.

We are treated like princesses

Beloved like queens

Taken out to be seen

With pride and joy and love.

At my mother’s house

Comfort is queen

And love is love is love is love.