This House is Full
by Bryce McKay Weyerman
This house is full.
I did my fare share, but it was full before I got here.
Full of undiscovered boxes, rejections represented in the objects tossed aside.
I don’t think this house has ever been empty.
Full of desires and other aspirations.
The stairs remember a creak from all the people to ever cross it, friend of foe.
Important boxes remain where forgotten ones lied.
Still the house remains, full.
They might never be opened and their contents again forgotten.
This house never gets bigger, in fact it seams as if it shrinks every passing day.
Yet it is full of life, and family runs thick through it’s veins, no matter how partial, how shattered.
I can not tell you if this house is a home. I do not know.
But all I can tell you is this house if full.
Art, pictures, and jars of candles. Toy ships, old scripts and enough books to drowned in. Decorations, vegetation, furniture and gore.
No matter how full there’s always room for one more.
I moved into my mothers house after the death of my father. I was met with many decisions as well as items which occupied the house. I remember how stuffy and small it felt there before we started to clean it out and make room for myself and my son there. But no matter how much clutter there was one another was always welcome.
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