Welcome Home

I.

You talk about abandoned houses, about peeling plaster and windows without screens. You talk about the way their sills call you when       the moon is high. Its light glints off the glass scattered among sawdust, you say, and makes you dream of anyplace but here.

II.

I have a hammer and nails. We can fix this building together. Stop looking at the sky and look at me instead, look at your own two hands. Count the callouses and know you are stronger for each blister that’s bubbled and healed.

III.

You ask me how I expect you to inhabit this place. You point to hingeless doors like eye sockets, to insulation hanging from the ceiling in clumps clotted by rain, and ask how you are supposed to stay.      The sky doesn’t press in like these four broken walls, you tell me.       It doesn’t reek of mildew or second chances gone wrong. I say the sky doesn’t smell of fresh earth or peppermint, the kind that grows between the cinder blocks and under the back porch’s shadow.            It doesn’t carry the sound of reconstruction in its air.

IV.

When you clear out the debris, you will get splinters. The glass will crack under your shoes. But when you clean the water stains off the walls and put new panes in the windows, this building will not look like a skull. When you sweep away the sawdust, you will remember the feeling of cold hardwood underfoot and the way moonlight evaporates at dawn.

V.

You will relearn what it feels like to be at home in this skin you’ve been given. You will be happy you worked hard enough to see.

Rebekah Rosamilia graduated from Belhaven University with degrees in Intercultural Studies, English, and Creative Writing. She enjoys dancing, playing and listening to music, and spending time in nature. Her current favorite poets are Sarah Kay and George Herbert.