A square mile of land jutting unassumingly into the Atlantic ocean
Contains my favorite place in the world.
Sitting amongst the rows of houses,
First built in the post-WWII boom,
Is my Grandparents' home.
Unlike the other homes
Neatly lined up with barely a lane between them,
Their home sits alone
At the corner of Mineola Avenue and Beech Street.
A dead-end on one side
And protected dunes on the other.
The house is the physical embodiment of the stoicism the women of my paternal line carry.
Alone amongst the dunes and rocks,
It fits the way one hopes to fit into their own lives,
Easily and comfortably.
The shingles weather as hair grays,
Slowly with the days.
Pounded by salt air.
The reflection of light on the exterior walls shows the ingrained history,
The laughs and tears,
Late nights and endless summers.
The front porch provides a tentative welcome,
Not unkind but protective of the ones inside.
A thresh-hold on which to bare your soul, lay wet towels, take off your shoes.
It is a place I know in my heart.
A place inside of me.
