Reflecting

The old house empties.
Father leaves first, in a veil of confusion.
Mother leaves slowly, her delicate fingers loosening their grip
on the edges of pretty things
until the air hangs still as an unworn dress.

Our past is carried away in boxes and
the rooms reply with increasingly hollow echoes.
I stand at the sink though there are no more dishes
left to wash, missing the scent of lemon.

A backyard swing, long gone, still beckons.
Somewhere, my mother's voice is at the other end
of a disconnected phone,
if only I knew what number to dial.
Every piece of our past is disassembled,
and yet somehow remains whole.

Now the men come with moving trucks and gloves.
I pull from the driveway with one glance back —
a yellow light still burns by the door.
Tonight the road will erase behind me.
Tomorrow a stranger's face will peer out the window.

I'll never forget my way back home.

— m.