A Home

I ask myself what will they remember when I am gone 

or when they are grown and cradling the hurts of their own childhood.

I wonder which pieces of this magnificent, messy effort will be worthy of recall

and which will fall by the wayside, detritus of days lived in the sunset

colors of our love for them. I know that much, if not most, will be packed away

in the recesses of what I hope they think of as a happy childhood.

Will moving be one of the sharp shards they carry gingerly? Angrily?

Perhaps tenderly? Will they demand explanation and reasons

for the wanderings of my heart? Will I have any?

- Hillary Bowen, A Home