(about 2004)
When upon returning home
I open the door; a presence felt
perhaps the smells of home it is
telling someone waits inside
welcoming a weary heart
bruised and torn by outside world.
I dare not imagine returning home
and opening door to empty rooms,
to faceless walls, a musty smell;
knowing I am all alone,
the wound torn deeper, worse because
here no refuge from cruel world.
If mother with her job to work,
planes to catch, degrees to earn,
left our home to find herself
to stop from being home all day
feeling useless; did she know
her sacrifice made house a home?
Quiet moments, calm repose,
maid-like duties, household chores.
Dinner's on, babe's asleep
a haven for the souls she keeps.
Arriving home, her family feels
a sense of comfort, stability.
A part of mothers own domain:
home can be a comforting word.
She lost herself; a gift to give,
belonging, to her family.
It's her presence awaits us there,
precious mother, blessed name.
