Perspective of growing up as the last of seven children.

Leaving the rolling hills of southern Indiana
and
facing the flat plains of the north.
Corn, pigs, and miles if open fields.
Wind ripping through with a vengeance
but the ties of home
remain.

Remembering
large family, big house and a
staircase for a king's castle.
Days of hide and seek,
camping out in the living room,
cowboys and Indians in the narrow backyard,
playing fort near the trash pit wall.

Daily chores
in designated areas.
Mom with her white glove test.
Dad in his chair,
reading the evening news.

Meals around the table,
each of us with stories to tell.
Saturday morning with sun filtering through the kitchen,
watching Mom cook,
meat, potatoes, gravy,
and bake five pies;
She creating the love
and
Dad with the laughter in this home.

I left and faced the mountains of the West
vast ranges of sage, creeks,
and rock.
A breath of newness
ripping around me.
Loose footing on the rocky terrain.

I stumble upon a memory,
being at the end of seven
and holding on
to the end of the roller skating whip.
Fling around the rest,
but returning to narrow.
Always knowing I would be fine
because of those before me
and the home I left behind.