There is a mess in this house, long and winding—a trail of places left, those to go, and the hopes and tangents along the way. To leave it is lazy and layered in dust and frustration. To clean it is to deny that the sun ever thought to shine.
All things are out of order—lost crowns are newfound treasure, and open-faced books are the windows that we all fall into. Every out of place thing is but a bookmark where words did run across the paths of adventure. Every small muddy footprint is but a footnote to home and history. So many mountains. So many molehills.
Brooms are the batons of a warm and happy brass band. Their days are spent in sweeping parades and the spreading of springtime. They spend their nights in kitchen closets telling tales of clouds and flying to mops, buckets, and all who would listen. The quiet is filled with longings always longer and the constant wonder of which straw will be the last.
The day rolls slowly over shade and shadows, and the house tells time across cobblestones and wildflowers. The stars show up better late than never.
A rare spot of uncluttered floor lends itself to the wild dance of many things, and songs grown within the moment. Our little home is warmed by little boys and their hearts are full of rumpus.
There is a mess in this house, and it will linger through the morrow.
In memory of Maurice Sendak, 1928 – 2012
Illustration from In Grandpa’s House