"Moving in Winter"
Their life, collapsed
like unplayed cards,
is carried piecemeal through the snow;
Headboard and footboard now, the bed
where she has lain desiring him
where overhead his sleep
its canopy to smother her
their table, by four elbows worn evening after evening while the wax runs down; mirrors grey with reflecting them,
bureaus coffining from the cold things that can shuffle in a drawer,
carpets rolled up around those echoes which, shaken out, take wing and breed new altercations, the old silences.
Today is moving day. It's hard to piece together how I feel. It's been almost 2 years since I've lived there, but it was a place to come back to. For the past few years my belongings have been spread out between home and school, then Nate's too. There was always a reason to leave or come back. Now there's not.
My old home was a dark place, and my family had to escape its weight. Strips of fly paper covered in dead flies. My father's chair where he put on his dramatic productions; empty now, but his presence still looming. Missing kitchen cabinet doors, broken things and just the sense that anyone had given up on ever making things right. It wasn't acceptance, but defeat.
We gathered up our things quickly, like we were running away. I threw things into boxes, others tossed in a dumpster, the rest left behind. There's still a month until the house is auctioned off and someone makes the house right, showing how we constantly went wrong. 14 years in that house and we never got it right.I will be reminded of it every day that I pass by it on the bus on the way to school or work. But maybe I'd rather be reminded of that than the hours spent playing in the yard, or the saturdays spent with my grandfather there before he died; good things that were destroyed or lost forever. It's easier to think of what was escaped than what was lost.