I return to the house— palms anointed by intention,
to steady its posture,
to lead it—if only briefly— toward a worth another might one day
sanctify.
The walls incline like venerable elders,
their counsel worn smooth by weather.
Windows veiled with memory’s ash.
The back porch bends in quiet homage
to the river,
humming as though recalling
the precise weight of my footsteps.
Afternoon light fractures into gold
across Grandmother’s sunflower field— yellow faces pitched in deliberate order,
sovereign against decay.
They have outlived the house,
the termites,
the tyranny of summers,
even me—
once a reckless body
weaving through green beds
that cradle more of my life
than any ledger could justly claim.
When that gold strikes my eyes,
time loosens its hold.
I am restored to the child
who spun dish-soap and breath
into fragile cosmologies— fingers glazed with summer sweetness,
pursuing rising translucence,
each sphere a prayer released
into daylight’s cathedral.
Now luminance spills through the roof’s fissures.
The house exhales.
From its depths emerge
hot cocoa lingering in shaded corners,
coffee deepening to twilight,
roosters summoning first light,
Grandmother’s prayers lifting— to whatever keeps dust faithful
and dawn returning.
These echoes take residence everywhere:
in timber,
breeze,
bone.
Each scent, each sound— a reliquary of endurance,
a vow kept without witness.
Tears rise.
I wade among the stalks.
Their crowned heads bow,
imparting what time cannot confiscate:
Grace.
Memory.
Joy.
Blooming—
even here.
I had come to finish things cleanly,
to seal this chapter
with figures and ink.
Yet the field sways under sacred air, and I understand:
some truths refuse appraisal,
exist beyond exchange.
So I turn back— pause at the screen door,
held in reverence.
Below, the river speaks through the floorboards.
Sunflowers regard me through the lattice, unhurried,
knowing.
I am both child and woman,
alive within what endures.
I re-enter—
the bubbles
trailing—
luminous,
eternal— after me…
