home

It will be an old one-story house with hardwood floors and giant windows. It will be a front yard with thick, cushiony Southern Florida-grass, and at least one too-large-to-wrap-my-arms-around oak tree. It will be a pirate ship playhouse in the backyard built with our kids. The front porch will have wind chimes, rocking chairs, and a wooden swing. The kitchen will be open. The bedroom will be white.
It will be someone to camp with in Grand Canyon National Park, or our own living room. It will be my best friend, my partner, my safe place. It will be filling up the gas tank, driving until it's empty, and then exploring whatever town we end up in. It will be a food fight in my own kitchen. I plan on throwing spaghetti. It will be driving to watch the sun rise in Savannah, and then watching it set in Pensacola.
It will be a freshly painted nursery. It will be the intoxicatingly clean smell of baby lotion. It will be first laughter, first words, and first steps. It will be bedtime stories and nightmare-induced slumber parties. It will be swimming with the dolphins at Discovery Cove for your birthday. It will be a band-aid and a kiss on the forehead. It will be letting go on the first day of kindergarden. It will be letting go on the last day of high school.
It will be friends going through the same life-experiences. It will be a tribe and we will encamp around each other. We will go to birth classes and consignment shops together. We will drink tea and laugh until we cry, remembering the time that the boys locked us on the roof and threw sticks at us. We will vacation together. We will grow together. We will laugh together. We will cry together. We will remember together.
Our roof will leak. Our grass will grow wild and the Homeowners Society will write threatning letters. The tree will fall. The kids will abandon the pirate ship. The wind chimes will crack, the rocking chairs will break, and the swing will grow cobwebbs. The kitchen will get cluttered. The bedroom won't stay white.
We will forget to go camping. We will forget how to be best friends, partners, and a safe place for each other. We won't have enough money to waste on a tank of gas. We won't feel like cleaning up the remnants of the spaghetti food fight. We won't have time to chase the sun.
The paint will chip. You won't use baby lotion anymore. The sound of your first laugh, first words, and first steps will become echos that bounce faintly off of the wooden floors. You won't believe the bedtime stories and you will sleep through your nightmares. You won't need me to provide an oppurtunity to swim with the dolphins. You won't require my band-aids or kisses. There will always be letting go.
We will become private about our life-experiences. Our tribe will shift and change with the coming of the new people and the leaving of the old. We will no longer need birth classes or consignment shops. We will drink tea and gossip about the neighbors who refuse to cut their wild grass. We will vacation alone. We will grow apart. We will forget to laugh. We will cry in private. We won't remember.
We will fix the roof. We will find the time to cut the grass, and maybe grow a garden. We will plant a new tree. We will introduce our grandchildren to the pirate ship. We will buy new wind chimes, we will fix the rocking chairs, and we will dust away the cobwebbs on the porch swing. We will organize the kitchen. The bedroom will be white.
We will remember how much we love to camp. One day you will laugh like you laughed when we first met, and I will remember how to be your best friend, partner, and safe place. We will save quarters to pay for a tank of gas, and then we will go find a new Mayberry. I will surprise you with a fistful of noodles on your head, and you will wash my hair with spaghetti sauce. We will find time to chase the sun.
I will help you paint your nursery. I will smile when you tell me how intoxicatingly sweet your baby girls head smells. You will send me recordings of first laughs, words, and steps. As I watch them, I'll hear yours echo off of the hard wood floors. You will tell them my bedtime stories and you will teach them how to sleep through their nightmares. You will take them to swim with the dolphins. You will band-aid their boo-boos and kiss their forehead. You will call me crying when they don't require this any longer and I will teach you how to let go.
We will realize that we were all going through the same thing. We will connect with the old tribe-members and plant roots with the new. We will play bingo and shop at flea markets. We will drink coffee and write threatening letters to the Homeowners Society. We will be too tired to vacation. We will be too deeply established to grow apart. We will laugh until we become incontinent. We will cry. We will always, always, always remember.