That House

I remember running around that house
The one with the tall, high windows,
The sunken lounge,
And the ‘good’ couch.
The house my sister and I would play
Bank tellers,
Click Clacking on Guess Who boards,
Using Monopoly money,
And asking people to “Hold”
On our imaginary hand telephones.
The house of loud voices,
Big arguments, distended veins
And a scar on my top eyebrow
When the door opened angrily
And made me bleed.
The house of spilled noodles and water,
Of angry voices and early mornings.
The house of refuge
From backyard bullies,
The twins who would jump
From trampoline to six year old me,
The boy with bad hands
And scary eyes.
The house with a stained glass window,
A perfect red rose,
That my mother designed,
The last piece of creation
Left unbroken
In a house where it all fell apart.

7 thoughts on “That House

  1. Mike

    Your words convey very well the sense of security that you felt at the house and the good/not so good times you remember in this poetic memoir. The attention to detail is praiseworthy and the poignant ending is very moving. I enjoyed reading this. Thank you and well done.


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