The Mudroom

Railroad ties framed the gravel driveway of my childhood home. A residual smell of tar would boil up from the fissures of their age in summer heat. They were heavy. Almost immovable. The spikes were removed and rehomed, driven into a rough cedar plank to be used as a long, coat rack affixed over a deacon's bench on our mudroom wall. Fifty years later, winter jackets, a scarf or two, and an occasional pair of chest waders still hang. My father's old, traditional-style, black, doctor's bag also still sits on the shelf above it all.

The mudroom also housed the dog's food; the floor vent with the warmest air; and a quiet place to disappear amongst the jackets when things got loud or painful in our house. I remember my brothers fighting to sit on the vent before school in order to warm adequately enough to change from their pajamas to their day clothes.

This home has gone through a few changes over the years, yet the mudroom remains untouched. One must walk through it to enter the rest of the house, and it is the last room you see when you leave. Memories hang undisturbed.

I did not emerge undisturbed.

I emerged heavy, like the railroad ties – of the earth – still where I lie. Parts of me are useful in the world, like my children – like empathy – like compassion. People hang many things on me. Yet I am fodder for fire, no matter how far I travel from the mudroom.

Or am I the fire?
I am tired.

May I cool
ankles deep in stillness
of whatever
is left?