By: Emma Callahan

I like to picture old houses before I go to sleep,

Ones I fear are disappearing right in front of me.

I like to count the rooms of each house I imagine,

And the memories I shared in their dens,

The games I played in their basements,

And the feelings I had, leaving them.

 

I like to picture my aunt’s old house,

11 Green Crest Road,

A time where my biggest worry was catching the ice cream truck.

Upon losing that house, I see time as temporary.

I see everything as a blossoming memory,

Something to grasp but never to hold,

I’m like a flower,

Mourning its petals

Before they even fall to the ground.

 

I fear that the inevitable is not far out of reach but rather just in my pocket,

A pit in my stomach that will not go down.

I fear that we all are disappearing somehow.