a poem about home

[we won’t use it in the worship…]

i used to wear my hair in piggy tails in the hope
i’d wake up to be Cindy Brady
and that the arguments in our hallway would be about
the new pay-phone in the family room
or who broke Carol’s favourite vase with the basketball
and that they’d be resolved with a moral and a hug after only thirty minutes
(minus the ad breaks)

i thought that was what homes were like.
everyone else’s but mine.

was it only in my home that the arguments went on for days
no clear winner, ever,
no glistening moral that could be framed and hung on the wall
next to the “Bless this house” plaque
just misunderstandings, unkept promises and secrets, glued over each other,
layers of wallpaper begging to be stripped by some sociological renovator in years to come.

and each night we’d sit around the dinner table,
the Bradys’ bickering as our soundtrack,
serving each other our false illusions and deceptions
as easily as we served each other the potatoes.

3 Comments

  1. craig mitchell

    ah, that’s the one that sparked my email. I thought this was really negative.

    sorry, this is turning into a commentary on a commentary. I was just trying to work out why I commented what I did. now I’m going to keep commenting on everything!

  2. Cheryl

    it is really negative.

    I didn’t use it in worship… i probably just had to get it out of my head before doing anything else for the worship. it was deliberately finished at that point. sometimes you just have to let the crap stand without trying to redeem it.

    it’s not altogether autobiographical (we were never allowed to watch the Brady Bunch while eating dinner…!)

    i rewrote the last stanza… must find that. The second version was much better.

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