White Farmhouse and Other Poems
BY CRYSTAL JAMES
White Farmhouse
Photo Courtesy | Crystal James
Our house was built in 1860
It has narrow doorways with squeaky handles
Furniture never fits through the stairway
And it’s a magnet to dust
But it’s our first home
So we cherish its quirks
We stamped our names on it
And the kids left their prints and marked heights
It was only supposed to be a five-year project house
We passed that during the great pandemic,
When we stayed indoors more than out
And learned our boundaries
Now, we daydream of moving –
We keep waiting for the right time
The upstairs is nearly renovated
With hand-built craftsman molding
And wood flooring that compliments
The shiny antique brass fixtures
That represent our style
Since we moved in, we added a baby
And a bedroom
My body has more scars than when we entered
And old wounds resurfaced
Within weeks of living here
We celebrated our daughter’s first birthday
With a big party
And filled each corner with everyone we knew
Her eyes dazzled at the abundance
But I felt shell-shocked
Anxious thoughts alarm my mind
Since then, life has changed
And our circle dwindled
We tightened the reins on boundaries
And our morals
We live on a smaller scale
Avoiding drama and learning to communicate
I healed each week in therapy within the safety of these walls
I found peace again
We broke traditions and transformed
We built a home
With vinyl music playing
And smells of smoked brisket on the weekends
We laugh and dance
And manage stressful, chaotic emotions
That dissipate as quickly as they arise
A home where the tooth fairy sprinkles glitter
And I watch the twinkle in their eyes
But most importantly,
Unconditional love fills our place
We may have outgrown this space
It becomes cluttered quickly
I’m always reorganizing
But there’s beauty in this dusty old house
You might not see past the front door that harbors spiderwebs
Or the distressed wood that was not on purpose
Or chipped paint from the kid’s free use of tape
Or the screeching floorboards
Or the mice that try to move in each winter
But to me,
This house represents
The painstaking and delicate
Work of becoming a family
Sliding Glass Door
Gusts of wind steer my attention
To the sliding glass door
I peer through the glass to watch the birds
They’re active today
It’s the first ounce of peace I’ve had in weeks
Since cold and flu season started
I love the natural light pouring in
I find myself closing the curtain
When parenting gets too hard
During those sleepless nights and unshowered days
I don’t want others to catch a glimpse
Of my current state
I settle into the darkness during those days
Further darkening my mood
And energy level
But the kids are back in school
And I find myself enjoying the brightness again
An overcast sky with bright orange maple leaves wisping by
This sliding glass door has seen it all
We meant to replace it years ago
But it’s functional, so it keeps moving down the to-do list
The plastic baby-safe latch is still dangling to the side
It’s a funny thought that I used to keep the children from going outside
Now, it’s my preferred
I haven’t cleaned the summer gunk out of it yet
There’s build-up from the children running in and out
“Close the door”
“Don’t stand with the door open”
“Don’t let the bees in”
It’s all true, of course, but mostly I want them outside as long as possible
Desperate not to be bothered for a few more minutes
This is the only window from which I can see most of our backyard
I’ve had many panicked reactions from this side of the glass
Where are the children?
Fear sets in
How could I let them play alone?
I should be outside
Not sitting inside with hawk eyes
I get easily distracted
I should be stalking and swooping low
Then I open the door only to be relieved from worry
They are always just playing in the one corner that can’t be seen
Now it’s time to thoroughly clean the prints and build-up
Wiping away the old for a new season of messes
Walking the Floors
My cold feet stumbled down the well-worn staircase
Willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness
My hand gripped the handrail for dear life
Hoping not to slip on dirty laundry like the other night
Each step with a slightly agitated bounce
An attempt to soothe the yelling that pierced my heart
I was making my way to the main floor
For the nightly ritual of walking the floors
A phrase I became well aware of since motherhood
I spent hours shuffling my exhausted feet across the floor
In a bouncing sway, that mother’s bodies seem to download
Even unintentionally in the grocery line
I listened to the floorboards creak under each step like music to my tired ears
In the dead of night, as I held my screaming baby, I was dancing with ghosts
The ghosts of all the mothers who walked these very floorboards
Gently swaying and softly singing to their babies
Together we danced through such trying times
The creaking music reminded me that I wasn’t alone
Soothing all of my midnight worries
Shooting power from past women
Straight through my bones to my mothering soul
I can no longer carry my children across the floor in a soothing fashion
Now my hand slides down the handrail with ease
Yet, I still pause to ponder
How many mothers have jogged up and down this beautifully worn staircase?
How many times they’ve heard “Mom!” and bolted down each step?
Only to find their child needing another snack with no emergency in sight
I think of how many times women have ached
Picking up each article of clothing strewn to the railing
Or stepped on a toy that shouldn’t be left there
I wonder how many mothers felt grounded
By this house as their bare feet felt the grooves of each step
I wonder how many mothers felt the strength of other mothers
Radiating through the floorboards in the middle of the night
I wonder how many mothers will dance with my ghost
And feel the strength I bared in the wee morning hours
I wonder how many mothers will be walking the floors
And think of me
CRYSTAL JAMES is a mother of two young children. She is writing from Grand Rapids, Michigan. She is a writer, poet, and artist. She believes in the power of being vulnerable with an open heart. This honest approach to writing helps her heal and grow with the hope of helping others along the way. She has been published in Kindred Voice, Journal of Expressive Writing, and has upcoming publishing with Motherscope, and Women’s Writing Circle Anthology. She actively posts poetry on her Instagram account at wordsbycrystaljames. She’s been featured on several IG poetry communities (Poetic Reveries, Streetwriters, the Writers Turf).