When I was younger, my

Family and I would visit my

Aunt’s house frequently. The memories I

Have of our visits are predominantly

Of harvesting fruits and vegetables

 

From her garden “for the winter” like

We were farmers in her queendom,

There are memories of sitting

In her attic in sweltering humidity, reading

Any words strewn about in books or papers

 

That were too much for her bookshelf downstairs,

Making homemade pizza on her countertop,

Watching disgustingly romantic movies.

My memories of “home” never had to deal

With my actual house. It was always

 

Of visiting my aunt during the

Summer. Every fourth of july,

Her little countryside home was lit by

Fireworks, despite it being the sun itself.

My aunts house was

 

Always warm. From the walls’ paint, to the

Firepit in the backyard, her arms during winter,

Her love was always bright and warm.

When she died, we went to her house. It was

Dark and we came in like refugees in the night,

 

With only the clothes on our backs and very few that

We packed into small backpacks. We sought

Solace in the dying light of my aunt’s house, tears

Like a pitcher of water, hurrying the dying of the flame, and

Like a permanent scar, the night rose, only to cloud my soul.

 

Years later, after my uncle remarried, I was brought to

Visit the house that still held the ghost of a summer breeze,

To offer welcome to his new wife.

Setting my foot in the grass of the same house where her

Laugh was a permanent melody on the breeze, I heard

 

Only silence. I could feel myself unconsciously looking

For her in the garden, but finding weeds that were almost as tall

As the tree she planted when my brother was born. I could

Hardly hold myself back from screaming in anguish as I

Walked in and saw that the carpet that she had carefully selected

 

Was ripped from the floor like her soul from her body. The warmth

In the walls was replaced by baby blues and teal greens, and there

Were wooden planks nailed to the wall with the last words she

Had painted on to them. I could almost hear the banging hammer

Silencing her last breath, as I was sure that mine

 

Was fading with her. Gone from the world was the sun,

Gone was the harvest, gone was the firepit, the homemade

Pizza, the fairytale, the queen, the castle, the queendom. Gone

Was the last bit of home that I didn’t realize that I only had a

Limited time with. And so the sun set. But, this time, it was forever ever after.