Small house

We live in a small house.

We live in a small house,

I can see the end and beginning of it in any one spot.

With my arms outstretched I will touch something,

feel your hair or pat your shoulder.

Something is always underfoot:

White dog paws, a pair of eyes pleading for attention, a missing shoe.

We live in a small house.

I hear every movement made.

Every splash and spill and bump on the corner.

Echos of our front porch wind chimes dancing in the breeze and

baby’s cries through the plaster walls:

The sounds always reach me.

We live in a small house.

We can’t hold on to much.

Books are crammed in built-in bookshelves.

Most furniture can only fit if it’s against the wall,

I cling desperately to a few, bulky artifacts of which I can’t let go:

Mostly old, wooden things: a chest, tables, with leaves stowed under our bed.

We say a lot, It’s in the shed. I’ll go get it.

We live in a small house.

So small that you unassumingly play under my feet in the kitchen

while I make breakfast.

I catch a glance of you, cradling your stuffed kitty,

laying her down carefully on the hardwood floors.

On your knees, you cover it with a square blanket my grandma sewed for me.

I barely make out the gentle murmurs: it’s night-night time.

I think, I’d miss this if we lived in a bigger house.