My husband and I are moving house,
sort of. Maybe. But maybe not.
For who can move away
from 35 years of living?
What crate do you pack all your memories in?
How many boxes does it take
to hold a life?
A marriage?
A family?
This old house is only a place,
but it’s the place
where so much
of your life happened.
This new place does not have the spot
where your son took his first steps
or the spot where your daughter
lost her first tooth.
It doesn’t have the place on the stairs
where your children sat
when you overheard
your daughter asking your son to play Barbies
and your son answering
that he would,
for a quarter.
This new place does not have
the hallway you walked
all those nights
when the babies wouldn’t sleep,
or the spot where you stood
when you learned of
the attack on the World Trade Center,
or the door your husband walked through
when he brought home the stray dog
who became a part of the family.
It does not have the sunroom
where you slept every night
while recovering from knee surgery
and you couldn’t walk
up the stairs to the bedroom,
the sunroom where you sit
every morning
writing and reading
with your dog and your cat and your coffee.
And now you are old
and there isn’t enough of you left,
of your life left,
to make all the new memories
that will transform another house
into a home,
into your home.
In Other Words 