There was rain today, distant thunder echoing ever closer as two boys skittered about the house playing pirate as the rooms became shadowed. I hid beneath twin size comforter and sheet, head snuggled against teddybear pillow. Inflamed leg pressed against a cold mattress, I stared at the window, willing it to rain. I'd been praying for rain for just three days, but it seemed more.
Suddenly torrents of rain buffeted against windowpanes, rooftop, and brick, making the house that is no longer home a blessed fortress.
The pirates, draped in dark costume and loaded with treasure hopped upon the bed-turned-ship and we sailed away to safer seas. They spoke of fantastic adventures and soon, all too soon, the rain subsided and the voyage was over. The room brightened and rain subsided.
This house will soon belong to another family, perhaps with their own set of pirates.
I will miss it, regardless of what I have said.
But in the house that is becoming home, the same two boys will play pirate and run pitter-pat through hallways in the dark of night to my room. There will still be giggles and singing and late night stories, told from memory or made up, but mostly without the aid of a book, because my pirates like to lie in bed with closed eyes and be lulled to sleep by the sound of my voice, spiriting fairy tales and majestic adventures into their dreams. And we will continue to fall asleep, side by side, with the big lumbering dog at our feet til morning when she licks our faces and pounces, all 40 pounds of loving puppy energy, all around us, until we get up, and start our new day.
I suppose any house can be a home, and any home can be the right home, depending on what you make of it.