LW Poetry
This feature showcases original poems by LW residents. Send poems to emmad@lwsb.com. Poetry submissions will run as space allows. Stanzas in this poem, “After The Fire,” were combined in order to fit the full piece in the newspaper.
After The Fire
In solitude, the woman cries her tears. Her heart speaks not of a lost house, but of home, And that makes all the difference.
A home where she raised her children, where her babies slept in the cradle her late husband lovingly made with his own hands.
The home from which they rushed one day with asthmatic Alex to emergency.
The home which needed the front door pulled tightly shut to catch the lock.
The home where toddler Lisa stumbled down the front step, and hit her head on a brick—sixteen stitches!
The home with the worn bannister which John chose never to resand and lacquer, preferring the smoothness which came from three generations of family hands.
The home where Lisa and Josie danced (watch, Mom) and acted out original plays, always including a scene in which they imitated one of their school teachers.
The home where jigsaw puzzles covered the kitchen table on wintry evenings.
The home where the very walls breathed memories, where the worn carpets spoke histories.
Where a bedroom door slammed when Lisa came home from her date and cried and cried and cried.
Where there was a photo album of the Hawaii trip. Yes, this home: this earthly box that held her precious experiences, her pains, her joys, her sorrows— the very marrow of her life.
Catastrophic devastation: the sounds, the sights, the feel of her decades on earth, the very smells of comfort and familiarity were now all…what?...what?
Gone. Gone to nothing. Ash. Debris. Gone—walls, ceilings, floors, curtains, furniture, books, pictures, diaries, hand-sewn quilts, John’s old stamp collection, everything…gone.
She can’t replace Josie’s handprint Thanksgiving turkey Made in kindergarten.
She can’t replace the feel of silent living room early Sunday mornings before church, sunshine slanting through the window tracing delicate lace-curtain patterns on the pale blue carpet.
She can’t replace the taste of that cup of coffee, nor the cup itself, which said Number One Wife John had bought on a whim at Value Village. (Last of the big spenders he had laughed.) It had become her favorite after his sudden death.
The house was John in so many ways. The shingles on the roof. His up-and-down-the-ladder Christmas lights. His bed of private whispers, of tossings, of gentle snorings. His tools and handyman things.
And she weeps, for things are not just only things. The events of her life are wrapped around them, her stories, her memories, her laughter, her very being.
Like hunger relates to food, So her past relates to the house she lived in. The house she lived in became a home, Through the spirit of her family. Families are more than residents.
They do more than take up space. Families breathe the breath of life into the woodwork. Relationships and laughter and tears make a house a home.
And so she weeps alone, But she will not weep forever. She’ll set about building a new house. Her love, her determination will make a new home.
—Fred Wind, Mutual 12
