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I walked around the empty house and it groaned under my weight.
All the boxes were gone, on their way.
What was left, bare rooms, a lonely structure,
imperfections and landmarks.
The wood floor was stained from endless spills,
clumsy children, animals.
The ceiling, cracks run casually from wall to wall,
like eggshells. The kitchen sink still leaks,
though I promised to fix it ten years ago.
Since the kids learned
how to hang on them to climb on the counter
to reach the cereal or candy, the cupboards don't close properly.
Nails reside in the bathroom walls,
replacing broken towel holders.
The tile, chipped and stained,
runs downhill, and overflowing bathtubs
run into the next bedroom, soaking the carpet for weeks.
The back bedroom carpet contains a bright red stain,
a mishap from when Katie didn't make it to
the bathroom in time, after spaghetti for dinner.
The front door leans to the left. To open it,
you have to push it in just right before you
twist the squeaky knob and give it a good yank.
The window panes are permanently stained
with sticky fingerprints and kisses from
the dogs' wet noses. Crayon markings run up the
frame of the wall, when Katie
finally reached four feet in the fourth grade,
when Steve peaked at six foot three
at the end of his senior year. How pitiful this house
must look to someone who didn't watch her
daughter twirl in her Halloween ballerina costume
in the kitchen, or laugh at their son's
interpretation of Bill Clinton in front
of the fireplace one rainy afternoon.
They wouldn't know that the holes
in the wall were pictures of a family, smiling faces,
vacations to the Grand Canyon. Or that the stain
in the front entryway came from a pumpkin
Katie dropped, exploding when her brother
jumped out in front of her to say "boo".
I closed the front door, and walked down someone's broken pathway.
MELISSA EBY
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