Houses Make Me Sad

Houses make me sad.

All that living inside those walls, all that growing inside those halls.

Youthful voices gobbling up air.

Memories racing one another at the speed of light.

My house is a tomb—ashes in a bamboo box on a shelf in a closet rarely cracked.

That is where she is—well, there and in my head at all times, prodding me with dead eyes.

Those dead eyes I left behind one afternoon that felt like the blackest night.

Where were you, daddy?

I needed your help, daddy.

Thing is, I was there for her every day, six and a half years deep.

She was my home.

She was my living room, dining room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, yard.

She was everywhere I wanted to be, everything I wanted to live in.

And we lived in it so mightily together, she and I.

And now my house is nowhere I recognize.

Almost all of me rests among those ashes in that bamboo box.

What is left is not enough, I know.

But the love in this house drowned with her.

Houses to the left and right, around and down, are living.

This house is dying inside and out.

Without worthy memories churning at the speed of light.

Without the eyes I once got lost within.

Without the word “daddy,” which sounded like the poem of all poems.

Now houses make me sad.

Swingsets too.

And schoolyards.

And songs.

Yet, one foot and one breath must follow the other in this house or another.

For her.

Always and forever for her.