Family
If family is a body, learn its anatomy:
It has the head of a house.
Each room is a chamber of the brain.
Contrary to popular illustration, the windows are not eyes, but teeth.
It is impossible to tell whether a house is smiling or frowning.
Are the members of its body subterranean, perhaps the roots of nearby trees?
Or, are the limbs hung for the neighbors to see, the head shaded heartily above?
The members need water in the hot Summer, and the beauty of their Fall leaves are a sign of death.
But here comes nearby Spring, if the trees can just survive the Winter as they have for yrs & yrs.
It heard its own head, sorting these parts out.
“Doom is the House without / the Door—”
There have been some makeshift additions.
In the basement, among the mold, discarded toys, musical instruments, and Christmas decorations, its heart beats solemnly on.
A deep freeze sits nearby holding pounds of meat, frozen vegetables from the Fall harvest, bones for the dog, and other miscellany.
A ribcage. A ribcage. A ribcage.
The deck overlooking our property provides an aerial view of all that is outside, of all the foreign bodies that enter with each breath.
The house, heated by wood-burning stoves, has an invisible respiratory system.
Each time a member leaves, it takes a body that needs to go out into the world and brings back a body that needs to enter the family.
When you are outside looking in, you see windows lit in estranged light.
When you are inside looking out, you see worlds lit in strange light.
