Goodbye, height wall,
goodbye, Lazy Susan,
goodbye, apple spice–
scented little bathroom
with the good acoustics.
It’s been real, beige
carpeted stairs, trodden
38 years—that top step
where we waited as kids
on Christmas morning
for Mom and Dad,
down there finessing
details (pot of coffee,
Emile Pandolfi CD),
to call up “Ready!”
Thunderous descent,
blur of flannel pajamas.
Times we’d fly up the steps,
door slam, punctuating
an argument, and times
we’d race down, doorbell,
tumble of greeting: Hi,
Mom’s piano students.
Hi, Jimmer the Neighbor
Kid. It’s all been real.
So long, pizza slice–
shape picture window
high over the family room,
where oak branches bow
and sway. You gave passing
seasons a 1980s frame.
And you, lilac bush,
potpourri of youth. Birds
that fatally crashed into
that trapezoid of glass
are buried beneath
your boughs. I’ll miss you,
yard barn, towering tulip
tree I planted in third grade,
kitchen where we always
congregated, dress-up
box full of possibilities
(pirate, bridesmaid or both).
Dear childhood bedroom,
our parting was set
in motion long ago—
a tasteful quilt tapestry
where once hung a poster
of a mangy cat (“Bad Hair
Day”). I became an adult,
and you, a guest room.
Long live the last mile:
M-89 to 12th Street to 103rd
Avenue, sun-sieved canopy
of trees—autumn, indelible.
Healthy, I assume, to slacken
one’s grip on “home.” Change
as the only constant, et cetera.
Still, I’m sad and questioning
my sadness (22 years since
this was my return address),
reading about “pathological
nostalgia” and thinking
mostly of the height wall,
metric to measure gratitude.
"We were here!” it says, it said.
And how lucky to be for so long.
