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Thoughts on visiting Margaret Miller in Meat Camp every First and Third Friday for the past Two Years. 

This is the House your Father built.
On the same road where your grandmother sowed seeds to the pattern of the stars; this is the land where your father planted in the Earth, not on the Moon.
Those are the hooks in the fireplace where your mother hung her cast iron cooking pot, this is the kitchen where she fed eleven little mouths. 
There is the photograph of your oldest brother Marvin.
In the hallway where your mother was told her eldest son would not be coming home from that hospital in Statesville; these are the walls that heard her heart break. 
Here are the stories you give me.
On the first and third Friday of every month; these are the rooms where you show me the quilts your mother made, the smooth rocks you carried back from that beach in Canada, and that picture of you with your best boyfriend. 
This is the House your Father built.
On the same road where your grandmother planted hens and chicks; these are the floors that remember your footsteps when your eyes don't see too well anymore.
Here is the porch where I tell you goodbye and you tell me you love me; this is the promise I make to myself to comeback to see you again.