The Taste of Home

Peeling white paint

Stained wooden floors

Dim yellow light bulbs

Papers strewn across the floor

An unmade bed piled with blankets and pillows

The smell of detergent,

Bubbling soups,

Creaking wood,

And of faint incense.

The whish of closing doors,

The groan of opening doors,

The small sigh of the cushion as someone sits on the worn couch.

The mark of a crayon,

Used by the hands of a toddler,

Bright red against the white wall.

The drawer in the small kitchen,

Where a small, chipped plate

Used to lie.

The grooves and dents

On the table, 

With three chairs pushed around it.

The house, empty and wilted,

All of its past packed into

Tiny, unfeeling suitcases.

The suitcases, heavy and bulging,

Only the things that mattered most put inside.

But what about the plates?

What about the chopsticks,

Used for years, 

Washed with love.

What about the memories?

The bedsheets, 

Alight with flowers and birds on its covers.

The shared smiles,

The late nights,

Spent sitting in the old, worn couch,

Together.

Where did it all go?

Where will it go?

The door opens

The last time to commit the house to memory.

And then it shuts,

And everything falls apart.