Identity

My Cowboy Wallpaper

There are tattoos on the walls of my parents' house, but they are under the skin where no one can see. Buried under layers of paint and paneling and wallpaper. I know they're still there.
Despite the paneling in my old bedroom the walls are still covered with cowboys and Indians and wagon trains. They ride and rope and hunt on brightly colored paper; traces of my finger prints left behind.
A portrait of Whee-Zee done in pencil by my mother's hand still graces the drywall in the basement stairwell waiting to be seen again.
Under layers of paint on the living room wall stands a mural. A tranquil lake ringed by trees and a chain link fence. An inspiration painted by my mother so many years ago.
Asphalt siding and cedar shake still cover our house, encased in pale green aluminum.
The rough, lumpy drywall compound on the living room ceiling a testament to my father's persistence, as he built our house by day while working on the railroad at night.
Inside the attic walls the relics of my youth. Our sled on wheels and my brother's Roman battleship lie dormant after so many hours of joy.
Outside in the earth, the remains of pets gone by enrich the soil. My turtle King Tut, Carl's mice and perhaps a cat or two lie resting forevermore.
The last bit of bark from the old Maple tree mingles in the dirt around the butterfly bush, compost for a new generation.
Every now and then Mom digs up an errant toy soldier or an old plastic racing car, and the yard is alive again with the games of children.
And the sounds and the voices that hang in the air. The smell of hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill, and the splashing in the pool.
Whee-Zee and Max and Buster running and barking in the yard.
The Olsens and the Avises and the Gerbers are all still there.
My brother's voice still calls out, carried on the wind, never forgotten.
This home,this ground,will always be me.