by CECILIA ODENBAUGH - April 27, 2020
There was a time when I’d come home to read in the living room alone.
Maybe I’d sit on the dark green carpet embedded with stubborn cat hair
that diligently refused to be sucked up by our old vacuum cleaner.
Maybe I would sit on the tall bulky lounge chairs built for playtime forts
hiding away the mischievous homes of my fluffy stuffed animals.
Maybe I’d go there to play, searching our massive wooden bookshelf
dad handcrafted in the garage during the one cold winter in New Mexico.
Maybe I’d be allowed to play on the family computer at the desk permanently stained
with coffee rings from all the times Mom spilled her coffee mug while she worked.
Maybe I’d just like to sit and look out our front window framed by the
ugly cream curtains that collected dust because they were rarely washed.
Maybe I’d look at the lamps whose shelves were stacked full of longing memories
containing silly smiles and reenacted photos of blown birthday candles.
Or maybe I wouldn’t– for the bookshelf has been ripped out and put in the trash,
the green carpet torn and shredded, discarded in the city dump,
and the chairs sold away to another family because Mom never liked them.