A Brief History of this House

Just yesterday, I searched
the homemade slat shelves
in what used to be my father's
basement workshop to find
the necessary parts to fix
my mother's television signal.
Like always, his collection
of mismatched sundries,
an addiction to keep (passed on),
provided what we needed.
That the picture is now clear
is point, though prodigal,
of much wanted filial pride.

And in this room,where I began
most of eighteen years of nights
and where last night the five of us
slept mostly soundly, snuggly,
half a life later (and twice to go?)
I notice, without slightest regret,
the juvenile S of ceiling stars
no longer glow, their infinity broken,
miraculously years ago to bring on these new years.

Finally, this morning, a threshold
opened in long gone memory,
thirty years disappear:
I see this house as it was,
this day through the long years,
revisited in the doorway's suspended jump of a nine month old,
the furniture diving of a three year old,
the brave explorations of wise old six.

This is as close to time travel as I care to get.