An Archaeology of Self

A poem

Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash

I hold the square glass butter dish
discovered like buried treasure in the cabinet
and my dormant child grins in recognition.
She’d remembered long before I did,
traced the sloping roofline while
I talked of atmosphere and the intangible.

In this house I am home again,
inside the familiar contradictions of
rotting walls and solid love.
There have been too many long years
of learning to be an adult,
reining in dreams, dismissing
the excitement of surprise.

I’d thought I was in training
to grow real, adding each day
like another building block.
I listen to the thrum of rain
on the iron roof, place more buckets
to catch the leaks, and settle
on these firm foundations.