By Ande Finley
Sweet dark graces me with grief to mark the bits slipping into strange hands – the champagne shades, the old chipped dresser, the table with the children’s scars. In the night, I walk the house with its gaping windows and rooms filling with boxes and bags, cases labeled with history and the tiny details woven into so many lives. Help me memorize the flicker of ash leaves on the white wall that has lost its form, the ash we planted that long ago spring, blooming now in the last spring that it will be our ash, our wall, our stories embedded in its plaster no matter what color it becomes. The empty house morphs into a shell of clean cold beige – erase the hole where you put your hand through and the step where everyone tripped, pull up the ugly carpet in the secret places where we loved, uproot the old apple tree, sand out the nicks and gashes of a family that slammed doors and cried and celebrated and let me gather all my ghosts to dance me out the door.
Copyright Ande Finley 2010