Gingerbread Home Little gingerbread house on the end of the street. Family like the frosting that holds it together. Gingerbread family seen from a window outlined in peppermint swirls. Outside looking in on chaos of a crazy family but nothing crumbles the little gingerbread house. Little girl with banged up knees plays the piano, tiny fingers trying to reach the keys. She doesn’t often succeed. Mama with the bluejay eyes, vanilla skin, hair like tiger lillies. Gracious smile never ceasing, tickle parties never ending. Curly haired and rosebud cheeked, freckles like constellations, older sister sits and does school work dutifully, mischievous grin peeking over a book. Dimple like a crescent roll straight from the oven. Cold hands embrace the dog before anyone else, daddy sings Louis Armstrong with a wannabe voice. Memories are placed through the house like gumdrops on gingerbread. Only gazed upon by us in fondness, for no one likes to eat them The house as interesting as the people inside of it. So family ensues, and nothing will ever break the little gingerbread home at the end of the street.