My house, mi casa.
Never a stranger, but now empty of most things familiar.
She has known me since I was a baby,
pale verdance enfolding me,
warm golden floor which sang me creaking lullabies
holding me still into solid sleep.
My kin are gone from her,
nest long since empty,
lonely, hollow, and hallowed
halls remain, ineffable.
She echos with harmonies,
heartaches, and happinesses,
first steps, first words,
tears, joy, mischief,
now gone into solitude.
She remembers rage, respect, reticence,
refuses to relinquish these which are hers to keep
and ours to leave to the corners.
These things are old, faded, and precious,
and she hoards them against mold and silence.
Here lies my home, on a hill.
I will always love her,
she who was also a mother to me,
being the foundations of my raising
and the shelter of my youth.
She is barren of summers and bereft of small footsteps.
My girlish dreams fade into ghosts,
shades that linger,
brushing fingers through hair and
against faces of all who live there next.
She still hums to herself,
wondering if her voice will sooth another child someday,
and hopes that she will be heard when she says
“I could like you.
If you stay,
I could even love you.”