A TRIBUTE

Growing up my house was the oldest on the block.

Not an actual block, you see, it wasn’t a straight never-ending line of wall.

More like hills of bricks laid in random areas of a sandbox.

See, growing up my house was the oldest on the block.

The wooden top, with the concrete skirt. Shattered windows and peepholes.

There were a lot of cold

nights.

They pointed and laughed. That weird town girl, in the old house in town.

my house?

That thing that stood there like a lash in your eye, a thorn in your thumb.

The one that stood out the most.

Her roof was rusted with antiquity.

The many years she battled the hurricanes and strong winds, yet, remained standing with nothing more than bumps and bruises, and boy did she wear them proudly - like a daisy in her hair given to her by a lover.

Her top, fitted her square like figure to perfection.

Grey and Slender, with her beautiful shingles that danced and sang like a church choir when that Holy Spirit hit them.

Her nine earrings gleaming, her once clear glasses, dulled with the tears she battled through the ages.

Windows to her soul

but, they were always covered.

At the top, she held two beautiful eyes that were always shut, restricting the entrance of lurking eyes and her haters – and mine.

She was sentinel.

The eye at the back of her head was the only portal…

Even her mouth was - shut -

She was, and still is, an isolated case of heartache. This woman loved her space but she welcomed me with open arms daily.

She gave me a roof over my head, someplace to call home,

She was rented.

My adopted mother.

She was never really mine.

She reminded me of my grandmother.

The one woman in this world and the next I’ll look up too.

Like my house, she was strong. Very strong.

Independent and every beauty in-between.

My grandmother was the

soul

of my house.

The days she went hungry so we’d have enough.

The nights she’d allow us to trespass under her covers and steal her warmth, where she slept on carpeted wooden floors without complain.

She was strength.

“It’s comfortable...” she’d say smiling sheepishly and carrying on with her day.

They all seem sad but I loved them.

I treasure it all. Her storytelling, while we snacked at her feet.

Lectures on rights and wrongs.

The woman I am today is because of the woman, the soul of my house.

See, people just saw my old house.

That’s what I wanted them to see.

Her.

Soul.

Was.

Mine.

I didn’t want them to take it.

She was home.

See, my house, the oldest on the block had more soul than her modern concrete top to bottom brothers and sisters. She was my jazz bar in New Orleans.

That old house is

where magic happens.

Where it was created.

Where dreams come true.

That old house is my lifeline,

the epitome of life itself.

My, not mine, old house.

D. Kayak