not just a house

It is just
a house,
my daughter said.
And though I am
loathe to call her wrong,
she is. It was a refuge for my soul.
It was solace
and peace
and time
to think. It was a moment
and a week
and a month
and two years
of trying to understand
everything
that had happened.
It was the darkness
of grief alongside
the rush
of the mountain
spring.
It was the black
of night and a bed of white-hot stars.
And when
it came time for sleep,
it was
the quiet
that brought
a hint
of courage
and
a shred
of bravado
to fend
off
the morning’s
cloy of despair. It
WAS
more than a house.
It had
a soul.
Mine,
for sure.
And maybe those
of the others
who’d healed,
there.
For there must have
been others.
Yes, I’m sure there were
others.