Apr 05
laurenwwright's picture


Between the perimeter of trees you can see
the shiny white mailbox standing at the end
of the driveway that cuts between the front
lawn and the small flowered hill where
stands four sides covered in faint yellow siding.
The first floor, secure with crisp orange brick.
A gray door in the center where you can only
see inside by looking through the small pieces
of clear glass. The deck on the second floor that
wraps around all but one side, dad built that
warm summer, that shelters against the rain when
searching for keys. The summer time plants that rest
around the wood—make for sunny day candids, and the
roof over head saves rainy day prom pictures.
When the sun radiates the wood, you can still feel
those summer nights. The smell of hot dogs wrapping
around the deck. Kids climbing onto the deck
out the kitchen window, then diving onto the couch
through the one at the other end. Running in a line to the
pool as the sun starts to set, while the water splashes
over the sides. The hill that itches every time you roll down
it and flies you onto the front lawn when covered in snow.
The back door let leads to ice tea and hot chocolate.

For the kids inside it haven’t always been that big.
For the people inside it haven’t always been that few.
The walls of security are now division. The trees
that once kept us in, now keep some out. What once
was 7 is now 3, but I only get 2. The house that had
always been a home, I now sit on the other side of the
road—uncertain if the hole from my heel that summer
afternoon ever got fixed. If the couch still sits in front of
the window. How long it will take the patch of grass to
grow back where there once was a pool. What’s in the
shed now without my dads tools.
When I close my eyes at night, I still see my room.
Even though it’s a drive-by house now, I still call it home.
laurenwwright's picture
About the Author: laurenwwright