In The House

Mother Entering the House
1. 1950, age 29
 
She had wanted this moment for so long—
her foot crossing the threshold
into the American Dream.
She was constructing her future
a piece at a time. I was newborn,
swaddled as a Welcome Home gift.
 
She imagined filling the house
with furniture, where it would go,
how she would answer the doorbell.
She could see children running on stairs,
tucking them into cribs, turning
mobiles, measuring them growing
on the dining room entranceway.
She could imagine a car with fins,
a clothesline with laundry flapping hello,
a lilac bush and how it would smell.
She had imported a dog for this picture,
and it was small enough for a lap.
 
She fell in love with all these flaws.
She told her husband, I want to die here.
 
2. 2015, age 94
 
Sixty-five years later, the roof is leaking,
water moving as waterfalls in the walls.
 
We had all left the house to start families.
She struggled to get in and out of bed.
 
The lilacs had died of disease long ago.
Dad had died almost nineteen years ago.
 
Several small dogs had died.
Her only wish was to die in the house.
 
The house and she had a deal —
to go out together.