This Old House (When Light Spills Through)
A poem on new life and faded memories...
Time has since passed,
No longer counted
In hours, days, or years.
Rather in memories come and gone:
Brief, staccato imprints
Along a timeline of indifference.
Yet the hallway’s end exists unaltered,
A window unencumbered and left ajar.
Safety stops stand at attention,
Preventing a full stretch of wakening.
Lethargy lingers in the ambient air,
While the world outside carries on.
Subtle, distorted sounds
Roll lazily in through the crack,
Spilling across the floor
For anyone willing to listen.
Still curtains hang rigid,
Stiff and dust-covered,
Deep umber becomes faded lavender
When left to the sun’s devices.
-
The house makes different noises now.
Not better, not worse,
Rather, unfamiliar perhaps.
The pitter-patter of tiny feet,
Scampering and pounding
To the beat of roughhouse and play.
Sharp nails, high heels, and fallen utensils
Click, clatter and imprint upon aged hardwood.
Down the hall, through the doorways,
A circulating carousel of
Chaos, mess, and excitement.
On a good day,
Sometime around the end of the season,
When the house is at its fullest,
Creaks and groans will reach a crescendo,
The house buckling under the weight
Of people, laughter, and joy.
The sun, while at its lowest point,
Will pass across the hallway’s end,
Acknowledging the window’s presence,
While a single ray of light will sneak past
The thick, faded lavender velour
And cascade gently across the worn hardwood
Gently warming whomever passes through.
Cover Image: Hope | Nicolas Martin | 2022