Refuge

Rooted in Pennsylvania soil, the House’s bones do not shake. 

Under stress she breathes calmly. And in bliss she rejoices. Resilient, weightless, she weathers storms with grace and shelters a family with ease—a boy, a woman, a man, especially a girl. 

Admirable is the House’s stability through each season of life. Unflinchingly and without exception, she keeps watch like a crow. Sheltering them from harsh weather and encouraging them to dream of light. Warmth. Their bodies sink into the sofa like bars of soap in a bubbly bathtub, and their minds wander like curious kids on a trip to the zoo. Stacks of mail to answer and calendars chock-full of appointments and pantry shelves brimming with ingredients to use before they expire don’t intimidate her, for she enforces no schedule herself. 

Like a mother, the House yearns to hold the family softly and firmly in her palm—the bed her dark and warm womb, the kitchen her chaotic mind. In shades of sleepiness and comfort, golden light pours in like molasses, warming their skin. There’s no war to be fought and no victory to be won. Fears dissipate from the child’s nervous system as the House envelops her in a warm embrace. 

As a fire crackles and the Eagles announcer’s deep voice resounds through the halls and ricochets off her walls, she looks upon the family and sighs in relief. All together at once, what a gift it is. To have them together, with no force pulling anyone anywhere else. 

When the world feels overwhelming, and all other places seem to be yelling, the House whispers. 

“There’s nowhere to be,” she assures. “Stay for a while.”

Structure, limits, and expectations are regarded as the pillars of protective motherhood. Clear rules provide a child comfort and safety from danger and harm. Though these outcomes are inevitable, the mother strives to delay them in perpetuity in the best interest of her child. But the most successful nurturing technique may be letting a child roam freely without expectation—allowing them to experience life through a lens unhindered—releasing the child to endure life, offering an embrace when they come running for help, asking nothing of them in return.

Through the slanted sky windows, periwinkle light sprinkles the floor of the living room. Hours later, no one’s moved. Onyx night flows in like thick, viscous honey. The deep richness of colors urges softness, relaxation. Doing nothing is okay, encouraged even. In all her nooks and corners—books toppling over, crammed together like sardines atop a wooden shelf, and countless unruly plants fighting to claim their territory on a coffee table—the House appears chaotic, but has herself under control. Under the butterscotch moon in the living room, they chuckle at that rugged hat the man is wearing. The clock dings eight and dinner’s about ready. So the girl sets down her drink on the wooden chess set the boy somehow made by hand (he’s innately talented). It perches atop the side table that’s been sitting in that corner for years.

Giddy is the House when the family luxuriates and lounges, for this is when their best moments take place. 

It’s on the top floor where the boy and girl go from just siblings to friends. It’s where he confides in her and they hang out on hot summer nights talking about how he wants to ask out his best friend, and she says you should. 

It’s in the basement where time blends together. The spontaneous ping-pong game becomes the man asking how the boy’s truly doing, using parts of his lexicon only accessed during moments like this. 

It’s on the ground floor’s couch in a humid mid-afternoon where the woman is watching television and the air is still and she ends up holding the girl’s heart in her hands to ease her anxious sorrows and wash away her tears. 

And it’s on the porch in a soft moment where the woman makes space for what her soul yearns for, beginning a sweet embrace of herself after all this time.

The House doesn’t physically do any of these things, but she saturates the color of every interaction. The House’s seemingly small corners form the backdrop of this unique life of four. A fabric connecting her moments together, tightly wound like a meticulously woven scarf. A prolific anthology of tender moments.

Every day is a boundless stream of love. Ordinary love and peace. 

When they’ve flown the nest to mill about strangers’ faces, the House patiently awaits a triumphant return. Sitting in the railway station headed in all separate directions, tapping their feet waiting for the monitor to put up train track assignments, the House—she longs, she utters, “Don’t be a stranger.”

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It’s November. And it’s gotten pretty cold in Pennsylvania. You’re decades old. Humbly sized and stable and warm. You don’t move, though you would if you could. You’d move with them wherever they go. You are decades old. You protect a family, a small family, and you’ve done a good job. You can’t say it, but in truth you miss them. Time suspended is your greatest wish. They go. Don’t tell you where they’re heading. You don’t weaken without them. Your door remains open. But it gets harder to resist the incantation. ‘I Miss You. I’m tired. Come home.’

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