I think I started seeing the change when pictures of dinosaurs became pictures of houses- without transition.
My son spent his time drawing those houses, colorless or not, the same as every other child in the neighborhood- in the country-in the other countries.
Each child had a tell when drawing- something so you knew which kid drew what.
My son's was red rosebushes.
There was always a red rosebush, and I mean it when I say always because I hate the word.
Mentioning red matters too, because the kid next door drew the roses light pink, the kid across the street had dark pink, and another drew yellow- whenever color was involved, mind you.
It wasn't only rosebushes. The Mertons' daughter drew porch swings, and the Miltons' son drew hot tubs.
I imagine children in Africa drew trees in front of their huts or something.
I've been lost so long.
I've been floating with nowhere to land and I'm suffering.
I miss having a place for pets and potted plants and love and growth- real, measurable growth like in gardens or with pencil stripes on laundry room doors as children get taller.
When there are no more children there are no more stripes.
This is sad.
I am sad.
It's been years, maybe more.
I want to go home.
They'll help me find it again-
I've been lost so long, and it's been a dream.
Wanderlust was a fever that took me young.
I’ll be back on the road once I finish up my teaching job here.
It's weird how the kids hand me pictures of houses after class.
You'd think kids would draw all sorts of things, being kids and all, but I guess houses are pretty great too- although I've never seemed to need one.
My littlest has been drawing pictures of backpacks. It's concerning because all of her brothers and sisters are drawing homes.
I've traveled these islands before, but there now seems to be an overabundance of houses- both in pictures and on land.
I think someone is looking for a home.
Maybe someone is looking for their home.
The pictures are passed around and eventually disappear.
Someone is taking them.
I wonder who.
The pictures make their way to me and I look through them whenever I can.
I haven't seen it yet-
I'll keep on shifting, sifting.
Someone's bound to draw the right one.
I'll find it.
She was spending so much time drawing homes for someone else that she’d lost her place in her own.
One day she was drawing in the park.
She never did come home.
It was the lantern hanging over the window-
An invitation to walk into the wild, but safely.
Little Margie drew it; it was her tell.
She ran the picture right to me.
The house was tiny, and falling apart a bit, but I didn't mind.
It was my home.
I was home.