Amanda Layne
For the lumber I’ve abandoned.
Don’t forget to pack:
the baby blue spruce dad planted in the front yard
the chip in the honeycomb tile powder room floor
the blood stain engrained butcher block countertops
the slamming screen door and separating patio stone weeds
the dog and the bone buried out back
the purple hall walls who saw it all go down
the swing set, the sandbox, the security, the sacrifice
scraped knees, peeling noses, filthy finger nails, asphalt feet
that flying saucer washer and perennial flower pot graveyard
I wonder if the hollyhocks ever bloomed?
a chapel, a battleground, a nursery, a morgue
trick-or-treat, trim-the-tree, tradition-birthplace-legacy
lines etched in the doorframe beneath peeling paint veins
a serendipitous safe haven with mice in the attic
a husband, a wife, a family’s shared life
years of tears of joy and strife
left behind to remind
us of what we’re all made.