The house is empty

The house is empty

now, waiting for the next,

but it should not be empty

now because it is 18 years

of life and 40 years of memory,

and visits, and laughter,

and grief, and Christmas trees,

and Thanksgiving dinners

with Mogen David wine

and the night the roof leaked

from Hurricane Betsy

and the fraternity party

and the king cake parties

and the breakfast after

the senior prom

and the arguments

and the slammed doors

and the children

and the children’s children

and mincemeat pie

and salmon croquettes

and banana fritters

and barbequed ribs

from the barbeque drum.

The house doesn’t remember

now, the house is empty

now, but the house is never

empty, never will be,

never is now is never and

why do I always remember

the hardwood window sills

Photograph by Kim Newberg via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.