From My Childhood Home

if walls could talk, they’d remind me of us. 

they’d sing songs we sang, they’d tell stories of my childhood.
they’d whisper that all is okay.
 
if walls could talk, they’d remind me of you.
how you walked through these rooms, how you cooked in the kitchen and
how you slept soundly wherever you fell asleep.
 
if walls could talk, they’d remind me of us.
they’d share the times doused in laughter and the times full of tears.
they’d whisper “don’t ever forget you were all here”.
 
if walls could talk, they’d remind me of me.
how i drew on them, leaned against them, stared at them.
they’d whisper that all will be okay.
 
if walls could talk, they’d give me some comfort.
they’d understand what it’s like to look at blank walls that once showed shadows of us.
they’d understand how much good and bad went on inside them.
they’d whisper “don’t you forget us”.
 
Sitting in the middle of the empty house that was once (and I guess still is) my childhood home, I wrote and I cried. It will be auctioned soon and I’m nothing but miserable about it. It’s bloody tough. It’s just a house, but there’s so much about it that I can’t ever forget. 

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