I Think I Will, Eventually, Forget

I think about what will happen to my paternal grandparents’ house when they die. I always hated that house, not them, not the experiences that I had in it. Just, the house ITSELF. I hated that no matter how many people you filled it with it always seemed empty, no matter when you went into it it existed on another plane of time and space. Lonely. How it always had a crushing quiet, the quiet of an awkward silence, when you heard that a family member has just died, except it is always, always like that.

My maternal grandparents house was similar, but less so, mostly because the only place that was eerie was the basement (I avoided it like the plague). This house felt more familiar, in a subconscious sense. My Mother’s family was larger than my Father’s, and well, it still is, despite how many that have died, and have made that once familiar house more hollow than before. It was also once filled with family members in picture frames that had died, that I had never met, that even my Mom had never met. When my grandmother died the house began on its downward progression to this hollowness, in fact, that was actually the beginning AND the end, because when my grandfather died, his soul had already left him when the love of his life did, six years before.

When I was working the other day, I had a sudden flash – of lightning bugs and of the humid New England evenings that had seemed to never have an end, in my maternal grandparents’ fenced-in back yard… it was the first time I had thought about these memories, that place, since my grandfather passed away, and it came to me, in a sudden realization, that these nights would never happen again, these dark sunsets playing capture the flag with siblings and with cousins (in the end someone would inevitably get hurt), capturing lightning bugs en masse (because dear God they were everywhere) would exist only in my memory; I could relive them as many times as I wanted to, until I replayed them so much they eventually faded and became forgotten, like the jaded photos of family members on walls, like my Dad’s cassette tapes that he claimed to wear out, like the rotting books and dusty vinyls my grandparents gave me, all of those, existing in my memory or not, with someone watching them or not, would fade, would rust, would tire of being the objects they were, becoming nothing, so that no one would even remember them for what they were.


The House Of The Rising Sun

I found myself in an unknown place,
at an early hour, when I just woke.
It was not my home, nor did I remember
what brought me to this lonely space.
It was a forest, a deciduous kind,
not near my house, around which lived pine.
My bed clothes still clean from the last night’s wash,
I realized I had no watch.
But then soon, the sun began to rise.
I could see more clearly through my adjusted eyes.
I looked around for human life –
but I could find none, and so I turned.
Turned toward the eastern front,
toward the sun, toward where there could be someone.
With nothing to protect my feet, except my socks,
which offered no protective feat,
I wandered in the easterly direction,
until I stumbled upon a pool, and found by own reflection.
And beyond this pool, this tarn it could be called,
was a monstrous rubble, covered in moss and other lichen.
It looked like stone, maybe brick,
stuck with cement, but as I could see, it did not stick.
There was an air above the moss, one conceived so thick ’twas hard to move across.
But I did not want to move across, no, for in this air was a danger, a danger I could not know.
It struck me all over, not only on my body, but also in my private mind.
Pervading all my senses, rendering my heart defenseless.
I told myself I must not venture, not over this tarn and not over this direction.
I maintained a healthy distance, and ushered my way around, toward the eastern sun, where I knew hope could be found.
I knew not to look back, to never glance again. For that feeling of evil still rested on my skin.


I waited by the railroad by the garden by the big yellow house.
I waited, you came, we talked, we played,
in our adult-like ways.
The color caught your eye,
the yellow leaves, the yellow house, my yellow blouse.
I’d say our goodbyes
because I never wanted to hear you say yours.
And I would wait for you again
by the railroad by the garden by the big yellow house.
I always waited for the day I would wait forever,
but that day never came.
Instead it was I, who left you standing alone by the railroad
wanting, waiting to see the yellow leaves, the yellow house, my yellow blouse.

Black House

When I see the black house rise in front of me

A mood crawls up my mind

Seeing an ancient purpose

Repurpose itself

I thought it was over

But the dark paint is still dripping

As if it never dried

I never turned around

I should’ve checked if I locked the door

I was careless because I was afraid

And now all the windows are open

And the draft’s blowing in

The water’s seeping the wood

I better hold tight for the wave

Alone With One

I find it fitting I will die alone
In my own home
My own home was nothing more then I was
I didn’t paint it
I didn’t weed the garden
Never fixed the pipes
The joints always creaked
The muscles would always huff and blow smoke
It didn’t happen in one day, like they said it would
Calmly it fell apart
No one noticed
It just happened
No one cared
Not for me
Not for the house
So calmly it fell apart
On top of me
Then into me
Then I felt a rasping sadness when it was happening
The sadness lingered
Like me and the house
Lingered away
And away we went