Old Home

Sometimes she finds her self standing still in the places where their stories perpetuate. Each step, then, is another memory:
        the front yard plays two girls tangled in one another; her head restes on her loves inner thigh, the warmth, the smell, the comfort. The grass, green and freshly cut, the sun shining. The girls are giggling, reading text books aloud.
      The driveway revs opening car doors coming home from the grocery store.
      The cold front step flashes cold dark evenings, cigarette in hand, phone in the other, tripping, crying, waiting, wishing.
      The back garden grows vegetables from warm spring days digging, planting.
      The porch door creaks open the day they moved in, the yellow of the lamp, the warmth of sad kisses.
      The kitchen warms of home cooked meals, of arguments resolved by caress, by touch, by lifting her up on her hips and bringing her back to the bed room.
      The living room lays touching, feeling, fucking on the couch, and on the other, crying.
      The bathroom showers water that dripped over them kissing, and singing.
      Their bedroom sleeps them. holds them. Until she sleeps alone.

She’s thrown away every little reminder. But, no matter how hard she tries, she’ll never forget.