The Storm Shelter

I have begged
for someone
to love me
no matter the weather.

I used to measure my worth
by your ability
to see through the rain.

When the clouds rolled in,

I hoped
you were holding the door

while I repaired
the shelter

I’d built
with my own two hands.

I pulled out the porch chairs

and invited you to stay

as long as you needed.

Coffee was hot.

Tea was cold.

The porch light
stayed on.

There was always room.

There is always room.

There always will be.

I scraped old porch floors.

Painted walls.

Collected furniture.

Extra blankets
waited in the closet.

Air mattresses
waited in the hall.

I could already see

the masterpiece

I was building.

I just hoped

you saw it too.

I watched

the cracks
in old floors

disappear…

while the cracks
in people

slowly began

to heal.

I measured my worth

by how at home

I could make

everyone else feel.

Three years ago,

an empty chair

would’ve shattered me.

Today…

the coffee

is still hot.

The tea

is still cold.

The porch light

still burns.

The invitation

never changed.

I did.

Come hell or high water,

my swing,

my pup,

my favorite Alabama blanket,

and three places

for my children

will always

be waiting.

For the first time
in my life,

I stopped long enough

to admire

what I’d been building…

and had built…

for so many others

for so long.

Then…

I finally took

my own damned seat.