My Mom named our house “Hall Haven”.
When the Hall kids grew up and went out into the world,
she wanted us to know we could always come home to
Hall Haven if we needed a soft place to fall.
For footsteps on the stairs.
The silence is palpable and the wind sighs,
Chasing dry leaves across the front porch.
The cold hearth longs for the warmth of a fire.
The rain beats against the sunroom windows.
For the trees on the hillside to bud
And the grass to spring up green and lush.
For bluebirds to come again to their houses
And make the nests ready for the young.
For the creaking of the porch swing
And the smell of pipe smoke.
She echoes a thousand joys
And untold heartaches and disappointments,
She has known a Mother’s tears for her soldier-son
Gone to war and grief for a brother who lies in foreign soil,
She aches with the memories of young lives ended
Before they had fully lived.
For the scent of a cedar tree carried in lovingly
And hung with ornaments made by little hands,
For the kitchen crowded with everyone talking
And laughing and teasing
And little ones playing underfoot
While dinner is…somehow…prepared.
On the slope above the bend in the river,
Quietly, patiently, serenely,
Hall Haven waits for her children.
Margaret Hall Simpson
February 14, 2004
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