The Hopefuls

I see no discernible path through the debris
But they do,
They make their way stepping gingerly over mounds of dirt
scraps of wood
piles of pebbles
particles, pieces
that start as nothing
and become something
become a house,
a home.
A mother, baby on her hip
a father helping a small child through the doorway
a handful more kids trailing behind
her with a snood and modest clothing
him in a white shirt and black pants,
traditional garb,
traditional is what we call them.
They step through the opening
disappearing inside
trying to imagine where their furniture might go,
or where they'd put their Shabbos table.
From its infancy
I watched it take shape
through my window
always watching
growing and shaping and forming by the day
imagining people and children and lights
and laughter
the place this family may soon call home.