A Lost Home

Rusted, familiar glints of silver and gold,

cold metal dances through my fingertips,

resting in the lock with a click.

The splintered door groans, an old

age unfamiliar, the handle slips

from my grasp and unites with brick.

Refracted reds, greens and blues

ripple at my feet, forgotten hues

that met my gaze at every departure.

The hallway mirror hangs,

just how I had left it, reflecting

a stranger hiding past pangs.

Each step reveals the same sighs,

the same creaks a child once learnt

to descend through sly silence.

The ivy carpet now cries

with dust, fraying and burnt

from the burden of solitary deniance.

Claw marks embedded into bannisters,

petite specks of history

surviving, bleeding out splinters

as a reminder of wooden injury —

a memento of a friend lost

to time, half-alive in photographs.

Lilac wallpaper peels, revealing

crayon marks, little scrapes

of innocence chalked into foundations

or her home; stains on the ceiling,

created by luminescent shapes

that made tenebrous alterations.

A lifetime ago, this was her home,

my home. Cobwebs decorate the corners,

spiders spinning 'welcome home' banners

just for me. Only spectres roam

these halls now, fragments of memory, mourners

holding onto what they think matters.

Chipped photo frames hold smiles

of relatives now sleeping in soil —

I must remember why I am here.

I begin my search through piles

of papers, receipts, records, all foil

my pursuit, distractions from a past year.

The envelope addressed to my old name,

sits heavy in my hands, paper

yellowed, ink faded;

my mother's handwriting still looks the same.

It reads 'To my dearest daughter',

so I close it.

The answers float on the surface of water,

but I cannot bring myself to glance at it.

How can I read something that was made

for a girl who no longer exists?