My floors sing to me
the story of my family as my feet hit the hardwood in the morning.
They creak a gentle greeting beneath the weight of my sleepy steps—
a familiar hymn of routine and comfort.
It sings me a love song in the kitchen,
a reminder of the warmth poured into every meal,
the laughter shared over mismatched mugs,
the quiet glances and loud conversations that turned strangers into soulmates.
It hums where we danced in socked feet,
where we argued and made up,
where we built something sacred out of the ordinary.
My floor holds the symphony of the click-clack of paws,
pressed into the knots and burls like the wax of an old record—
a soundtrack of joy and mischief.
An expert nose sniffing out treats and forgotten crumbs,
quick and agile as she zoomed from room to room,
tail high, eyes bright.
And then, without warning,
Slowing—
as if someone forgot to wind the gramophone.
And then, in an instant,
no clacks at all.
A deafening silence that rings out in a tortured loop, filling the space where her melody ought to be.
My floor sings me a lullaby, a hush,
to accompany the swish of my robe
as I rock our children back to sleep in the dark, sacred hours of the night.
It knows the rhythm of pacing and patience,
the quiet prayers whispered into soft foreheads,
the ache of love that grows deeper as we sway.
In the hallways, my floor carries the echoes of tiny feet
and big imaginations—
stomps of defiance and skips of joy —
the games, the messes, and the growing up.
The boards remember.
They remember holidays and homecomings;
they hold good news, bad days, and everything in between.
My floor is worn where we live most—
where we gather, where we wait, where we return.
But it does not mind the wear.
It sings because of it.
A song layered in time,
in presence, in people.
A song I will listen to, a song I will cherish,
for as long as I am blessed enough to walk this holy ground.