Take care. Remember what you were and who
You held inside your walls. The gentle breath
Of smoke released from dark, cast iron stoves,
And patinated wooden floors, impressed
By years of footsteps—these I will recall.
Or how the stones and twisted branches that
We found stood proud upon the porch, the way
The center of the butcher block sunk low
From years of chops and rolls and leans and drinks.
How paintings, etchings, prints in frames, veneered
The living wall; and when I recognized
A younger version of my father in
A misty photograph, I realized that
I might not know his story well at all.
But all that’s old was once so new. Your wise,
Omniscient ceilings started fresh, naive.
And so, you were not just a place to live,
But more: a blank page ready to be filled
With smells and yells and art, which made you grow,
And forty-seven Christmas trees that dropped
Their withered needles on the loving rug.
Delight, divorce, a second go at love
That brought a garden to the green backyard.
And now your second calling starts, your first
Went on so long. So as your walls are stripped,
And film is scrubbed off inner-window glass,
Find comfort in your past, for those you held
Are safe in one another’s weathered arms.
Elizabeth Vogt is a sophomore studying Creative Writing and Radio/TV/Film. She is from Washington, DC.
