My house is less of a mess.


Because it is still so much more than a house.

It’s an art display now more than an active studio,  hanging moments of long ago toddlers stepping paint soaked crocs across a canvas. 

The science lab is seen in ceiling stains of exploded volcanoes with burnt sparkler drops melted into the linoleum. 

Dust gathers on sports equipment tucked in corners, unused from season to season, always ready to play. 

The theater’s projector stands at the ready for late night visits replaying moments captured by young filmmakers practicing to be youtube sensations. 

The floors now mopped with the tongue of a beloved four legged friend one ear on the door for the returning footsteps of each best friend. 

The dressing room of costumes turned to closests of left behind but still loved clothing waiting to be cycled into backpacks for new adventures. 

The gathering place moves between loud and silent with nostalgia keeping it company. 

The walls are less fingerprints and more photographs stamped with the memories of moments past but never forgotten. 

The coffee brews between single cups and beans ran out. 

The chefs kitchen is littered with favorite meals made upon arrivals and packaged meals fit for the microwave catered by a new and improved woman healed by greasy fingers and sloppy kisses.

Super hero equipment has been retired under strategically placed furniture hiding the stains of overturned soda cans. 

Mason jars grow sprouts and spill out of cupboards over filled by every dish returned to the kitchen. 

The infirmary often empty is always ready for patients, in both texts and video calls.

And with a blink of one single eye, the whole scene can be turned on it’s head as a new dream is chased or a tired heart needs a place to recover.

So if you stop by please stay a little longer and listen to the stories hidden with in the walls.