True Home

True Home

I would not have painted the living room
creme de menthe green,
or the kitchen Pepto-Bismol pink
with grey wainscot and trim.
The beige carpet would not have flooreed me.
I would not have set as a centerpiece
the orange lava lamp atop the 13-inch Sylvania TV.
Nor would I have chosen the furniture:
hodgepodge, nondescript, but functional
from thrift shops, bargain basements,
relatives downsizing or upgrading.
Except for the lavender bedroom
and a purple bedspread for my 13th birthday
there was little I picked
in this five-room suite above the landromat
in which our family tumbled and spun
the last of our 18 years together.

But I did choose you, mother -
you, who with aproned care,
laid the cheese to bubble and brown
on the breadcrumb crusts
of our tuna noodle casseroles;
who cut the cooling Christmas cakes into reindeer shapes
before decoratively frosting them.
And I chose you, father,
who marshalled us from early morning sleep
several times each summer and often through each year,
hauling the red-plaid picnic cooler
onto buses bound for the baseball stadium,
amusement park or zoo;
you, who framed Renoirs trimmed from Sunday newspapers
to hang among our childhood masterpieces
from the museums' Saturday art school
to which you gained us scholarshipped admission.

In fact, we chose each other -
mother, father, older, younger brother -
to learn from, love, assist and suffer.
And I, the last survivor, count as Home -
to which I've trued all other habitations,
centering on my mantels the photographs of you -
those first few decades of my lifeteime
when we five, by blood and karma
indelibly entwined.

by Chris Beregi