By KALEIGH DELBRIDGE, March 15, 2022
a cracked picture frame sitting on a desk,
the way the sun shines through the cracks in the blinds,
a limp stuffed rabbit,
the sound of a kettle whistling;
at every turn, a memory.
the old green button-up i wear
is worn and faded in some places,
but i remember the vibrance it had on you. .
a movie playing from a tape—
the image is grainy but saturated.
on the case, worn and faded,
is a picture of a young girl and her dog.
the speakers buzz with static.
i still know which floorboards creak
whenever i visit, i make a game
of trying to not make a sound as i go to greet you.
i still cannot bring myself,
a sentimental fool,
to move on from my childhood,
spent running through the halls
of an old house with dreamt-up friends.
and now i am far away from home,
and you are sick,
but know i miss you,
i’ll be back soon.