The Mistress of the Hearth

I am the keeper of ordinary things—

the soup stirred slowly,

the candle burned down to its end,

the chair pulled closer

when someone needs to stay.

I have learned that home

does not make itself.

It is built in the returning,

in the sweeping up,

in the trying again,

in choosing what belongs here

and what will never cross the threshold again.

There are easier kinds of magic.

But mine has always been this:

to take what the world has given me

and decide what it will become.

To make warmth where there was none.

To set another place at the table.

To keep something beautiful

even when beauty requires labor.

I do not revere the hearth

because it is always peaceful.

I tend it because fire goes out

when no one tends it.

Because people need somewhere

to lay down what they carry.

Because a life can be gathered

from scraps and stories,

old recipes and second chances,

things carried across oceans,

and the stubborn belief

that belonging can be made.

So I gather the wood.

I strike the match.

I open the door.

And whatever this world has been,

whatever it has taken,

here, at least,

I will make a home.