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.