This house stored clothes and shoes and toys.
Extra rooms for guests that occasionally stayed
An office that was empty
A piano that was rarely played.
We were sucked into the abyss of the American dream.
Hoping to better the lives of our children
After money was in the bank
After neglecting the dinner table.
This house stored growth and change
And a safe where we locked up our timepieces
It housed heartache and loneliness
And phantoms that reminded us to live today
It housed ashes
It housed tears
It housed passion
It housed fear
We remodeled the kitchen to wipe away all the loss
We put together a trampoline in the backyard
To inject laughter into our veins
We painted the walls and adorned them with pictures from our Motherlands
But we were not home
My heart did not long for a bigger lot
But for a family that walked hand in hand
For watching the stars on the patio
For falling asleep naked with the windows open
In the kitchen, barefoot
As a reminder to stay grounded.
So I walk away
Emmerged, dislodged, uncovered
And pledge that the next place
Will not be full of things, but of an abundance of joy.
Author: Ashley Martinez
Editor: Sara Kärpänen
Photo: Elizabeth Lies / UnSplash