This Old House

It's here.
The weekend.
The move.

But alongside this excitement and hope for our new home, there is a sadness in leaving the old one. I'm not ready to reminisce just yet. Instead I'll let a poem I wrote a few years ago for my Nana (when she moved out of the house she shared with my Papa) speak for me. For now anyway.

In just a key

…click clack screens welcome tiled stages and warm coat piles.
…blue, white, sweet linens melt away the well worn tire.
…eggs, popcorn, and turkey sandwiches settle alongside shoes on staircases.

…fast forward only works through VCRs not tiny wrists promised fifty cents for five minutes.
…adventure and responsibility are met by postage stamps and train whistles.
…six hundred and eight cracks wait for skipping feet and reluctant vacuums.

…tap dancing typewriters settle while bright eyes peek into jewelry boxes.
…rubber gloves contain hours of lists, anxiety, and frozen fudge.
…patient barstools and burly toasters laugh alongside taunting telephones.

…invisible spiders stalk from brown grocery bags while crickets haunt once empty grasses.
…stone fires melt into twelve different stories from a wrinkled recliner.
…red paint seeks grace, freedom, redemption in the form of silk scarves and asphalt.

…hummingbirds swarm to warmed concrete and listen to faint tales of wanderlust.
…pink sponged curls prep for Tetley, sets of three, and the occasional buttered gram cracker.
…midnight calls out the secrets of quiet toes, while feet sip memories from porcelain cups.