The house I grew up in
sits dark and empty now.
no laughter echoes inside,
no freshly-caught fish cooks on the stove.
no teenager practices piano,
or sneaks past the creaky spot in the hall
outside her bedroom door.
no mother waits anxiously for her daughter to get home from a date,
or asks how my day was.
no father wakes me to go fish the nets,
though I complain about breaking my nails.
All I have now are my memories
and creased faded photographs.
There is a For Sale sign in the front yard
where I once lay, exhausted from "jogging" with Pop on a chilly night,
and stared at the stars so crisp and clear above me.
My dad laughed and asked what I was doing.
He couldn't understand of course,
and made me go inside
for some homemade clam chowder.