The house we lived in thirty-two years
by Glen Sorestad
[ poetry - april 08 ]
When we walked out and closed
behind us that so-familiar front door
for what we imagined would be
the final time, stood there a moment
beside the mailbox that had 668
emblazoned in faded gold on its side,
that deceptively modest vinyl-sided
bungalow with the stunningly artful
and tranquil backyard garden you
created from love, soil-roughened hands
and cracked fingernails, with its
kidney-shaped koi pond and tumbling
waterfall where robins delighted in
their morning baths, we did not turn
to each other, lips squeezed tight, to say,
Take one last look. We won't be back!
But I know we both sensed that
the steps which took us down the chipped
and cracking cement front stoop were
leading us away from one part of our lives
into something different, something new.
It was not that we were moving such
a distance that a journey to revisit
would become some arduous trek.
We knew there would be no return.
We pulled the door shut and heard
the lock fall into place one final time
and left to the silence in our wake
all the ghosts of thirty-two years.
