Tyson Street

I drive past the house I grew up in.
Everything is different.
I look for some kind of familiarity,
but there isn’t any.

The screen door is now black.
The trim isn’t green anymore.
The bench my dad made is missing.
The vines
that once covered the wall
transporting our young eyes to the jungle,
has been uprooted and covered by rock.

It’s all gone,
there’s no fingerprint to match to mine.
The inside is still ours in my mind
and it always will be.

The furniture rarely touched in the living room.
The, now ancient, computer we all use to use.
The kitchen
decorated with things my mom collected.
The furniture in the family room
bent and squished
like they had been overused
by seated family evenings.
My parent’s room
still carrying that familiar smell.
You know, that smell you can’t describe.
A small hint of steam escaping,
where my dad would iron his clothes.
The tan hallway and white trim
that led to my purple bedroom
decorated with butterflies.
The white walls
with descending green army men
decorating my brother’s walls,
his room right next to mine.

It’s all there in my dreams.
The building, much like a time capsule,
makes the memories real.

As I pass by this broken time machine,
I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if I had met that twelve year old girl I once was…before everything changed,
what would I say?

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the way our lives are reflected and seen


Break the silence. End the violence.

Felie Fel's Pages

Don't be afraid, just turn the page.

Luke Atkins

Film, Music, and Television Critic

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