Volcano

Through the weaved links on the chain fencing I watch my two children playing on the elementary school playground; it is only the third day of school. The biting autumn wind reminds me to zip my jacket. The imminence of a long, frozen winter continuously confronts me with my mortality-a frail and fleeting collection of memories and words. The bell rings for what seems a solid minute and I kiss my young children goodbye wrapping their small frames in my arms in loving embrace. They eagerly scamper inside for spelling hour. I turn to walk home and think of these kids, not just my own, but every one of them. They will speak our language; but will they know our stories? They will endure a literate despair.

Up the cracked concrete stairs I plod slowly along, and pause momentarily, noticing the faded and chipped crimson paint of the egress. The hinges are rusted and utter an arduous groan as I enter. This is my house, my mansion, which was my parents' and their parents' before them; also bequeathed to my children. The home has become dilapidated and used throughout the years of occupancy yet it retains a certain character and authenticity which those new homes can never attain. Architects and contractors copy the designs of Victorian, Colonial, and Bungalow houses from centuries past but the ghosts within can never be duplicated, constructed, or contrived. Perhaps our children will wonder at the creaks and groans in the walls and roofs when the wind begins to gust. Perhaps they will just see the house aesthetically: a run-down, used, old home which has suffered the same hardships as its inhabitants and its surroundings.

But when the opulent sun breaks in the early morning on the front porch of that home, they will bask in the heat and life of it; they will remember the house for its true nature and beauty-for it is as much a part of them as it is a part of me.