My Childhood Home

12 Jun

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There are ghosts in this house.

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Ghosts of the way we were and the things we said. Butter dishes thrown at the wall. Orange juice spilled on the floor. Laughter – so much laughter.

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Footsteps that echo along the hallway in remembrance of races run to answer the bell.

The spirits of nights that we couldn’t sleep and nights there were sirens and nights there were foxes and nights we eventually closed our eyes because we wanted to wake with the weight of full stockings on our feet.

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The whispering voices of his record collection. Lennon and Jagger and Wilson and our hearts on vinyl.

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The lingering of prison sentences escaped from ingeniously.

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It was the circus. The ocean. The forest.

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It was the mountain. The mother. The whole world.

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Now our ghosts join the many before us

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as I say my last farewells to the walls.

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