My father still lives near the bones of my childhood.
The plants are the same and the street looks untouched-
The suburbs are big enough that we don't need to see it,
But sometimes, we need to-
Sometimes, we must revisit our ghosts,
Be enveloped by the strangeness of the past-
We remember everything.
Even the moments that didn't seem to matter at the time-
A bounce house, a bbq, a fall in the street,
All the reasons to want to remember nestled near the graves of the reasons we want to forget-
Oh, how the ghosts sing sometimes.
Crooning the joys and sorrows of days gone by.
M.L. | childhood is made of ghosts | national poetry writing month 9/30
My father lived in the place that grew me until he didn't anymore-
The scenery barely changed but the people did-
My childhood home is no where to be found.
These are the memories laced into the very soil of that place,
Sometimes we need to be reminded.
Reminded that our past is not the villain,
The past can be a comfort, an escape-
I will always be reminded of my father here,
There is no escaping that.
Every moment mattered- they still do.
A joyous laugh, a selfish choice, a quiet embrace-
Every moment with my father is now tinted with a bitter sweetness.
For that, I am grateful-
Because my father lived, and he lived well.
M.L. | adulthood creates ghosts | npm 2/30
