Any
Place Called Home
by
Rosemary Freedman
Once,
driving to my childhood home,
I looked
around at the old neighborhood and
I felt
ashamed.
My
mother, who had raised seven children,
was
alone in her back room
the
wallpaper peeling away, and because she had been
successful
at making successful
children,
I asked- "Why do you stay here?"
"This
is my home where I've lived for fifty years.
This is
where I feel comfortable," she answered.
Then I
imagined,
children
in huts, children in trailers,
in
doubles, in projects, in caves.
Any
place called home-
We share
the same sky-
and the
same sun.
Suddenly
I became a little girl
playing
in the rain with these other children
from all
of these other places.
Our
toothless smiles faced the sky,
reluctant
all -
to come
in from this Baptism spontaneous.
Our
laughter blending like a symphony
With
arms outstretched to a God that washed us all
with the
same water.
I looked
at my mother-
and her
wisdom warmed me like the
ancient
familiar cover she was wrapped in.
Comfort
spilled off of her, leaving me a bit uncomfortable.
I drove
toward my new neighborhood
feeling
ashamed.
From
Rosemary Freeman: "I am married and have seven children. I
have a B.A. in creative writing and literature, and a master's in
nursing education, a post-masters as a nurse practitioner and a
post-masters as a clinical nurse specialist. I enjoy gardening,
painting and karaoke."