“We’re gonna move?!” was the plot twist
In the remake comedy “Cheaper by the Dozen.”
Never would I have thought, though, that in 2007,
In the family room of 170 Wildflower Creek Drive,
My mother would propose the idea of moving
To us three children.

The idea of moving was exciting yet scary to me,
Being still under double digits in age.
The split-foyer house had always been my default refuge,
Where I always felt drawn to, if ever distant for however long.
The closet under the split-foyer stairwell, the red basement carpet,
The flowery wall paper tracing the walls of the second floor.
Knees bent on the off-white couch cushion in the family room
Spying on our front yard and the rows of houses,
Which columned to infinity from what I could see.
Friendly get-togethers, a Super Bowl XL bash, birthday parties,
The Japanese Juniper rooted towards the up-slanted corner of the black-tinted fence.
Our backyard’s deck with stairs, all that I would soon have to desert
For what seemed best at the time.
A room to myself sounded like a luxury,
But a lot of times, when things seem too good to be true in life,
I ponder if any strings are ever attached, invisibly at work.

All that we owned that had any contact with the McDonagh name,
Except for what kept the house together,
Either entered storage for an interim period of house-searching
Or tagged along to the Sun Crest apartments off Route 11-South.
I never thought I’d see our basement’s two-door, internally connected closet
Emptied and spacious enough to make circular paths in-and-out.
I remember the night that my family and I officially rode away
From the neighborhood property.
The glowing heart of the house, the foyer’s brown chandelier,
Discoed yellow-brown, unshapely-stretched reflections of light
Through the indented individual crystal-like brown glass
That cocooned the non-majestic lightbulbs inward.
As our van and family pulled away from the driveway,
Like the south pole of a magnet from the north pole,
All I had left to offer the house that provided me shelter and memories
Was a “this-isn’t-fair” glance as I leaned my head in the back seat of the van,
Resting my glasses on the backseat window as if some magnetism
Penetrated the glass to remind me that bonds, whether in science or love,
Don’t break easily.

In the summer of 2008, my family and I made the best
Out of the small apartment space,
Though thoughts of Wildflower Creek still lingered.
Many distractions befell me, however:
My 11th birthday party that July, jogging around our apartment building,
Video games, other visits with friends,
And, I cannot forget, the many houses I had to explore in the area
Before my parents settled on one and were not outbid by others.
Even though today I would not mind touring houses,
My mind was a million miles away from wanting to foot around stairs and rooms,
Even though it was necessary.

By the end of August 2008, we collectively agreed upon a house
And had many close neighbors help us move into a new familial abode.
The postal address claimed the area to be part of Kearneysville,
Though on the outskirts of Martinsburg.
This house, bricked-faced with touches of burgundy,
Was favored according to the equidistance
Regarding most of our out-of-house activities.

Assuredly enough, I have well-acquainted myself with this location by now,
My eyes always wanting to look out my bedroom window
To see the array of the day: the appearance of the outdoor skies,
The apex of the Veterans Affairs’ chapel building,
The gray fence of our posterior neighbor,
Two slender black-walnut trees intimately planted next to each other.
The Veterans Affairs facility’s bugle blows always annoyed me every 8 a.m.,
But, 10 years later, that’s the least of my troubles and I rarely hear it anymore myself.
At this point, I cannot tally all of the blessings that have entered this house
And that have come from establishing new roots under a new roof:
Two Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl appearances, the dawning growth of my outgoing spirit,
My theatre premiere, encountering new faces, learning how to drive in the Quad Graphics’ parking lot, taking advantage of new activities, visiting places I never thought I’d travel to,
The loss of our dog Jessie (2004-2013), the gaining of our present canine companion Bailey (b.2012), the election of Pope Francis, my first paid job, the arrival of the 2010’s;
My twelve-year Upward basketball legacy drew to a close in this Kearneysville residence (2004-2016); the historical election of President Barack Obama as the first president with African-American roots; even experiencing higher education in recent months.
This Kearneysville house has provided more than shelter; in its expansive vacuum and detailed
Indentations where potential dust may cling, this house has provided me
With the rest I need to continue life;
This house has helped me see
The profound blessing of the simple, ordinary mandatories.
In this house, I have been taught and disciplined
To implement my stewardship, to care with my own hands and being
In the hope that this dormant structure will continue to provide support
For my family circle and those to follow.
Sometimes I have been out the door so frequently
That this house has almost become less of “home.”

The impending decade-anniversary of family, house, and life
May never match a Rosary’s decade,
But both are met as devotions of resilience.
As a church official said,
“Home is a relationship more than a place.”
However, memories or relationships can take place
Under ceilings.
How much harder, as years progress,
Might it be to change my default houser?

At a panel with only high-schoolers my age,
The summer of 2015,
I asked a question related to the topic of vocations,
But the response was humiliating:
“We’re all single in life” sayeth one, with accompaniment of bass laughter
In the background.
The only one not going along with the laughter was the questioner.

Why do people tell me to smile more?
To not be too serious?
To take a joke?
What I would do sometimes to show people
All of my character, from birth, to prove them wrong.
How easy that is to do
Unless I acquire useful thinking.

People have instructed me before
To relax, but if I did “lighten up” at those moments,
I’d fear losing touch of public etiquette,
And receive a verbal penalty from the ones who told me to unstiffen in the first place.

A reverend once told me that life is such a balance,
But how can I balance the “what-ifs” in my head
With what is and should be appropriate in accordance with time and place?

My “Confiteor” is that I am part of the fault
Of not taking people seriously;
As I grow, I arm my eyes, ears and nerves
That what I unexpectedly receive I do receive
With a slower reaction.

I often imagine myself approaching the people,
Fists locked parallel to my hips, if you will,
Who have picked on me, joking or not, for just being aware
Of my surroundings and courtesy toward public environments,
And unleashing loud, assertive imperatives,
Reminding them I am not a carpet to step on,
But a warrior-patriot prepared to defend and even make-believe reasons for the moves I make…And I’m serious.

You were much more than a church-goer,
Much of your history floated under my nose,
But I realize now and am honored to have known you.

You served in the Navy,
At the Bay of Pigs in 1963.
I also read through the names of people
Who loved you and continue to hold your name in high regard, in faith.

You were a loyal, local church attendee,
You were always willing to volunteer during liturgies.
The fact that you would talk to my parents each week
And, in future years, also becoming my friend,
Showed how much you loved my family,
Which made you family, regardless of the sporadic times my family and I saw you.

I’d always round the right
To walk into the vestibule.
There you’d be, not intending to harass,
But to make me laugh and see
Sundays as a celebration of community
Rather than a somber type of solemn atmosphere.

To me, you are an insignia of St. Leo church
Being one of the first figures I’d link to the parish title.
I also cannot forget how,
When I began wearing ties to church,
You’d wrap the tongue of my tie(s) in your grasp:
“Let’s have a tie party,” you’d chuckle
As I tried mutely laughing back in the sacristy
Where silence was enforced, but you challenged the norm
And went against the tide of rules, remaining true
To your person, being an example for me
As I struggle to, like you, remain true to who I am.

May the halls of everlasting peace
Welcome you, Dan Desmond.

Often, I trick myself into thinking
It’s just a one-time feeling;
My, how I can fool myself
Into reconsidering my thoughts and feelings:
“What am I doing?”
“What am I thinking?” flow life’s inquiries.

I’m not a fool that I know I’m a fool
For speeding blood-flow in a beautiful woman’s presence.
Perhaps I can fake that I don’t notice
Or maybe say something for once.

Maybe about her hair
As it thickens, folds, threads, waves.
Or could it be a new style in my eyes?
Leave it to heart
To end up finding out.

Why do I stumble, my eyes?
And see what may divert my stir?
Don’t you see beauty in real-time, my eyes?
Such is pretend: imagery, photo-shopping.

See the royal richness before you, my eyes!
See the eyes across from you!
Open your heart, my eyes, to see that she, in her stare,
Has open her heart unto you!

She may blow a kiss; she may not
But her mouth is wonderful just the same.
Her lips say “Stay with me”
Without stretching to romantically whisper.

Could I hold your hand?
May I kiss your cheek?
I am simply honored to be
With you, a heart near to my own!

How I wish there was a way
To express love with more emotion;
For the idea, the thought drives me
To find a powerful way,
Such that I may let you know
You mean more beyond imagination!
More than they eye may fall prey to believe!

To continue my words to you,
May I play you a melody on the 88 keys?
To hear your voice hug the air
With an anthem that you love
An anthem that comforts and brings together?

As the rain might fall
I’ll hold you under my umbrella;
Your face shaded in half under its protection
Firing a pulsing launch of blood in me!

I am honored to be next to you
Breathing in a neighboring air;
Though a flower wilts when away from ground
I will not let such a blossom as you go parched!
You, a precious bloom, a luring beauty
Tell me what makes you grow and I
Will feed it to you, “amor mea.”

Why must I let the simple opticals
Distract me from the beauty I see?
She is attractive so; why must my mind
Break free and wander?
Such is my weakness; Love, you fortify my low energy.

Do not think, Love
That I come to you to remain alive!
No! There are many a vital aid
But I want you for more than your beauty
More than because you understand me.

I want you for you!
Listen, I do struggle mentally
To see your beauty all around
But you always see it in me!
Teach me! Be my guide!
Society restricts women, past and forward;
Remember, I am your equal
But as long as I am with you, you are
The better half!
I fault to fight the statement
But it’s truth, and I want to chase you
My reality, partner; my abstract; my truth
All in the same woman wonder!

During the years prior to high-school graduation,
It was never a “piece-of-cake”
To adjust back to reality. A.K.A. school, immediately following
Occasions, such as vacations, for any reason, or even ordinary weekends.
There’s also that event that took place during a “school night,”
Where the thought of have to “hit the books” the next day
Haunted my conscience amid focus and participation, as I knew
There never were many take-off extensions during the week.
I’d be one who tended
To stare out a window and fantasize
Of the arousals and feel-goods
From being around groups or plainly out of the house.
There were times where I’d stare
And picture still being with my grandparents in Pittsburgh
Upon arriving home from visiting them at their house.
On some Sundays, we’d host a family from our church
To watch football games, eat, chat,
And freeze-tag around the condensed square of yard
Shielding the Kearneysville property.
How could I have bounced right into school Monday
With thoughts of care-free run-arounds
And my loosened muscles on furniture while watching football
Still spinning in my head?
Is fun really a dream come true
Or is it a manipulative dream that speeds up during the good times
And slows down with the drags in life?
I’d even find myself adjusting to reality
Even if I were not the primal host at my house.
When either my parents or siblings
Would invite friends or other people distracting their attention to the house,
I’d always feel like I had the house to myself,
Their attention on the humane outlier making them invisible
And not focusing on my whereabouts or whodunits.
To me, stepping off the grass and back on the mud track of reality
Won’t always work the way it should,
Whether recovering from brief gathering events
Or rock concert trips.
I heard a Sunday sermon where the minister referred to humanity as each a “vacationer.”
Might that imply that reality is an effortful fantasy?  After all, don’t vacations require work too?

My originality, yes,
Can be overshadowed by who I
Resemble.

I assume positions and mannerisms
Like my dad,
I’ve been told.
The laughter, the cadences in dialogue
Similar on the paternal end, it seems.

Any mention of resembling Mom?
Not really,
Mostly the “like father, like son” interpretation.
I know I have Mom in me, though;
She even told me how I have her lips,
And my dad notices the excited energy Mom and I both have.
Time to break the norm:
I propose “like mother, like son”
For what I learn and have inherited from the maternal side.

I’m not just a mix of my parents, though,
I’m also a homogenization of those I encounter.

There were times where I would try
To emulate my brother’s life strength,
Letting words that try to haunt evaporate from memory.
Of course, when people advise me to “be yourself”
The truth becomes clearer as I experiment with ways
Of trying to escape the life-burdens only I can undertake
That mimicry only makes “me-me-cry.”

Sometimes I’d love my sister’s assertiveness,
How somehow the strength of her direct dialogue
Thunders when her mind is set on a course of action.

Too many instances
Where before friends my eyes become “copy machines”
Scanning what I see fit to scale, but unfit for me:
Folding my arms toughly,
******* my hands in my pants’ pockets,
Adjusting the cadences of my voice,
Adjusting the volume/tone of my voice,
Thinking I can think what others think.

How do I stay original, regardless of how I’m prone to change?
Well, at least I have one area of originality:
Who I’ve encountered
And where I’ve been
At uniquely arranged times fit for me.

How fast I wanted to turn 20,
And, on-and-off, how fast I want to rewind.
I feel a freedom
I’m not used to.
I’m bound
Because of my freedom:
To choose, to make many choice calls.

There are those
Who let me make decisions,
Yet those same people
Sporadically pour “suggestions”
My thinking ebbs in empty confusion.

I felt I held my collegiate throne well,
Until that feeling suffocated me:
Where am I going?
Where are my new social connections I expected?
I’m giving an all-out effort;
I never tried or would want to force an answer,
But answers never showed up.

My edition of 20:
Stranded on a social island
Of not a kid yet not quite a full-fledged adult.
“It’s so hard,” I moan sporadically.
Do I focus more on myself?
Is that selfish?
When I’m used to defaulting to care for others,
What effort it takes to come away,
But I know coming away more often
Can bring more of the best out of me
For when it will count most,
Not counting 20.