The House

For All Those on the Move

It’s always been there

the house, our house with the big eyes that have seen it all, the meeting, the swaying, the fall, the walls that hear my father cry, silently,

waiting for me, so patiently,

in the cold storm, in the shy spring, until yesterday

when I left it there, waiting

for the last time.

After all those years, the happy ones, the sad ones, too, I’m moving out — on, too,

to find a new home, make it my own, finally, for the first time.

After all those years of preparation, I thought I’d be ready, but instead, I cry.

Why.

Now my vision is blurred; I can’t see. But I know that he’s standing there, watching me, as I walk down that path

for the last time.

I couldn’t look back

yesterday

couldn’t look at the house

where my father stood

broken, with dark shadows embedded in the wrinkles around his eyes, spider webs around his ankles,

on the terrasse,

on which I drank, smoked, kissed

the overgrown garden, in which I danced,

on those steps on which he waited, waits, and on which I walked, just now, for the last time.

I want to,

move out,

he needs to,

move on,

and we both linger,

cowardly

hesitate,

for a long time

to make that step

that leap.

Why is it

that the end comes before the new beginning?

“The end is hard, boy. Real hard.”

Will I return, one day? Will he? Will we make the leap? Will we be again what we used to be?

“It’s alright, Dad. It’s alright. It’s just a house. We’re still here, you know.”

I was hoping,

and so were you,

yesterday, when I walked down the street, down to the bus stop, with my bundle,

hoping for a better tomorrow,

for a new beginning

and now it’s here

finally, scarily close, right in front of me, in front of you, too.

May it be good.