A Familiar Place

My fourth poem for my Poetry class. The assignment was to write about a place that was very personal to us.

For eleven years

I had walked through that green door

into a foyer, with scratched wooden floors

to yell out to my family that I was home from school.

The carpet on the stairs

was the first thing your eyes rested upon.

Worn down, stained, flattened by our feet,

ascending to the more personal parts of our lives.

The house had problems.

It desperately needed a new roof

and the paint could most surely use a fresh coat.

The possible buyers noted all of this and complained.

They asked us questions.

Why does the air-conditioning not work?

Did you put in this crown molding yourselves?

Why is this kitchen painted bright orange?

They laughed at all the problems they saw.

The beige, empty living room

was naked other than the brick fireplace.

Even now, as I close my eyes, I can see myself,

nine-years old, in that house for the very first time.

They just don’t understand.

They see rooms, a roof, repairs to be done.

They will never understand that the walls

tell Bible stories at night, in my father’s voice.

They will not hear the sound

of our Christmas presents being torn open.

They will never know that my sister’s voice

still sings in the dark, dirty chimney of the fireplace,

as a familiar love song.