I’m from a place where
routine greets change
my stepfather waking up at the crack of dawn
to watch the sunrise,
a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Pushing away the dogs as they
clamour around him, leaving streaks of mud and morning dew on the old tracksuit and shirt he wears for gardening.

My mother is lying in bed
not asleep,
staring at the ceiling,
absent mindedly
nibbling at the collar of her pyjama.
Trying to stop the world from
spinning.

Trying to find that soft
place between time and circumstance where a
prayer can dig into the improbable
like a shovel into earth
and lay the seed of a miracle.

Both consistent in their habits
like a rooster’s crow greeting the first light of day.

A place where sleeping in
is something the dead and lazy do.
After meditating my mother kicks away the duvet and blanket.
Calmly goes about turning the whole house upside down,
tipping my relatives and I
out of bed.

My stepfather in a constant
flux of yin and yang,
calls for the dogs to be fed,
calls for help
as he tills and guts the earth
giving and taking away.

I’m from a place
where families bond
through labour,
mostly in silent harmony,
wrestling
from house and yard work,
on days as tedious
as weed picking,
a rebirth,
a sense of home.