Letting Go of Home.......

For many years, there was a Home. A home and a family to go to.

Home is falling apart at the seams. Home is not healthy.

Sister isn't talking to mother, sister or brothers. Brothers are ignoring the problems. Mother is unable to buffer, because of denial. Brothers neglecting Brothers. Sisters are neglecting Sisters. Sister "adopting" a sister. Mother "adopting" a son and brother for all. Neither "adopted" persons are accepted by the other family members, but no one is admitting it. Mother won't allow anyone to help. A Sister is lost and Father is gone.

Home is run down, dirty, overgrown, unpainted, leaning ackwardly, infected with disregard and neglect.

Yearning for freedom from neglect, fences and buildings are reaching for Mother Earth, begging to be consumed and nurtured by her. Little brooks have ceased to babble. They are now appear as cess pools, putrid odors wafting from their depths. Precious buildings, built by those past, are gone. Others are in danger of the same fate. No more stories will be told about them. No more history will be made around them.

Rabbits, sheep, cows, horses, chickens, geese, turkeys, and ducks once created an atmosphere not unlike a marketplace. There were ladies bustling around, gathering their children under their wings. There were gentlemen who wore their finery to impress the womenfolk. There were mothers, softly cooing to their newborns. There were children, bawling for their Ma when they were separated. There were gentle people who walked among them, not over them or their memory.

A home of dust and weeds presents itself today. Where once life teamed, piles of trash defile. There is no life, new or otherwise. There is only dirt. It is the same dirt forefathers walked upon. It is the same dirt walked upon during happy times. The dirt hasn't changed. The humans have.

No more grandchildren will be mesmerized by the story of their grandpa feeding the cats directly from the cow. No more stories will be told about stealing fruit from the cellar and putting the empty bottles back for Mother to find. No more shooting the cow in the udders with your bb gun when you are nine. No more falling off the hay wagon and living to tell about it. No more clocks to be made.

Home has fallen. Fault does not lie with one person. It lies with all those who loved it, then left it to fall alone.