50 years is a long time to live in one house. Memories abide at every glance. It’s not easy to leave.
Just inside the threshold on the floor is the worn spot made by dad’s heavy foot from when he stepped through the door, home from work. The kitchen cabinet knobs shine from the light scratches of mom’s rings. The steps into the basement tell of countless trudges of moving Christmas decorations, luggage and backpacks in and out of storage. Dad’s tool chest parked down there eventually became home to brother’s tools. Remember when the basement was a roller rink?
Ages are forever etched into the kitchen doorframe, arranged in height-order. The chain of the built-in writing desk drawer etched a ghostly half-moon from constant opening and closing. Under sister’s window outside is the scuff mark from when she snuck out that night. Pencilled into the back bedroom wall, under paint and wallpaper lies a declaration of undying love. I forgot all about those Knick-nacks! Who put them them up here on the top shelf in back of the closet?
Love and fights, long days and sleepless nights, parties and pets. They all happened here. The cat’s buried over there, next to the bird (the fish never knew that dignity). Mom’s tulips are buried over there. They’ll be back next year, and the next, and the next. . .
