My childhood house would be fully decorated in christmas lights this time of year
my father effortlessly creating a magical holiday display.
My childhood house: with its green grass and stone-paved driveway.
The voices inside, filling each room
our energy, our disagreements, our holidays, our goodnight kisses
our freshly bathed and braided hair.
We broke bread together at a circular wood table set for five
took long drives to manzanita, and long flights to the turks and caicos
If I could turn back the clock
I would tell myself how good I have it;
convince 16 year old me that freedom and an apartment in the city will NOT fill the hungry void or the large absence she will someday come to know intimately.
the garage door opening as my parents come home is still audible in my brain
I think back to sitting between both of them and search restlessly for what that wholeness once felt like
Try not to misplace our quirks, or regret our crazy
Try not to feel crazy to miss something so crazy
Try not to let it feel like I have an amputated limb each time I come home to only 4 of them.
Try to not to feel like something is missing
When something will always be missing