The Visit Home

There's wood for chopping stacked up near the door to fuel warm fires in the kitchen stove which Papa proudly bought when I was four, long time before I left this house to rove. A puppy lies contented on the rug. He's bigger than the one I'd called my own, that pet I'd named for what he was, my Pug, who cheered me up when I was all alone. Whenever Mama cleaned, she shooed us out, and off we'd run down to the swimming hole. Now Papa's dead and Mama's got the gout. I rise to go outside and take a stroll. I bid farewell to summers gone for good; before I leave again . . . I'll chop that wood.