Upstairs, in the furthest corner of the house–in a bedroom larger than it has the right to be–the walls are slathered in lullaby-warm, dusky peach.
The winter blanket I sleep beneath matches this room perfectly.
On the far side of the room, an antique reading lamp casts a mellow ochre light beneath its hat of threadbare tassels.
Late at night, in the silence of a tired soul, I tuck below awaiting the fantasy of summer warmth.
My body slides from twitching toes to sweating skull cap, then I melt into the walls.
I am lullaby-warm, dusky peach.
It is here I unabashedly linger between chalk sheetrock and stunted two-by-fours.
I know well the reason I place my heart within this breathless structure.
The awareness of my soul painted into the latex is my acknowledgement of one simple truth:
Living in these walls is the only way I will ever provide shelter for my children.