
Portraits of my family lined the walls,
the scent of lavender in the corridors,
colorful toys in a box on the floor.
It was a house of harmony, where
we heard our kids’ first words, first laughs.
Gathered around the kitchen table,
we shared our food and stories.
Each crumb a token of our lives,
each chair a space for love.
I read to my twins
for the hope and comfort it gave me,
watched window curtains billow
in the breeze and light shift
with the sun’s warm radiance.
Everything seemed to be in balance.
The front door was a deep brown wood
worn by countless hands.
Opening, it made a soft creak,
welcoming us to the warmth inside.
The click of the lock, a signal
we were safe from the world outside.
Laughter echoed through the night.
Nothing could harm us.
A marker of the life we’d built,
those walls that once stood strong.
Now, displaced and adrift,
we wander on wounded streets
clasping the memory of a warm bed,
a messy kitchen, shelves full of books,
our belongings in three bags.