the house on beaver lake

so my parents are selling their house,

only i've never actually thought of it as their house.

my grandparents built it in the eighties

and retired there

and i visited for nineteen years

until my grandma died there

and my grandpa went to a home

and after he was gone

my parents inherited a giant physical obligation

holding too many memories.

i cry every time i visit,

and yet the thought of anyone else

owning that house

feels so strange.

i happen to know

the cranky neighbors next door

who are buying it up

so that no small children will live there,

and i wonder if they are thinking of me,

a child who visited there

and never thought anything of it.

i wonder if the knowledge of how to get there

will fade from my mind

after it becomes useless information,

or if it will always be there

like a shell imprinted in a rock,

found by some kid and her grandmother

a long time ago.

i wonder if i should have said something.

stopped this from happening.

i don't think i really ever wanted to live there,

but i want something to live there.

i want my memories to live there.

my head is so bad at keeping things in

that my childhood is safer here,

tucked snugly in between the walls

and woven into the carpets

where it can never disappear.

my childhood is about to get evicted,

in the middle of a pandemic, no less,

and i'm just standing here

watching it walk away.


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