Becoming like my parents
Is like coming home
After a long life of swimming
Through the universe, upstream
To a house that rises up to greet me
Like it’s been waiting for me for a long time
That purrs under my heavy steps
Until I weigh what I ought to again
Sometimes I am like my father in this house
Necessary and firm like the foundation
As useful and ordered as the roof tiles
But quick to temper like the old kitchen tap
Sometimes I am like my mother in this house
Clean and beautifying like the breeze flitting through the curtains
Safe like the smell of the sun in the linen
But tired like the paint that always has to pull the room together
My children are tethered to this home too
I honour my parents by ensuring its upkeep
By opening the windows to the new day
And repairing the things they didn’t think were broken
Qaanita Rossier writes poetry while hiding from her two kids.