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.