The dark wood paneling
bears the scars of the past twenty
years of holding life:
the marks of tape long
forgotten before recent removal,
small dents from the furniture,
the faintly scraped spot
by the kitchen where, at age seven, I
glued paper to the wall
(it was a sign to my “office” in the den).
The cast iron fireplace is now
covered in dust, sits closed.
I remember a time when it
was so dark and shiny,
back when its doors were
open and held the first flames
I ever made myself.
Decorations from weddings past
still hang in the backyard patio,
fruit trees are still vibrant among the weeds,
plumerias are in full bloom in the front,
but the insides are mostly empty now,
this place a ghost of the home it once was.
It’s time to move on,
to let this become
someone else’s home,
to take comfort in
memories are mobile.