The Leaving
Cardboard apartments enclose
my treasures — car miniatures frozen
in slumber, comic book heroes mid-fight.
I fold them in, shutting the lids,
tucking their worlds into boxes.
My room dissembles like a puzzle
scattered — shelves bare, walls naked,
floorboards peeking through where
the rug got rolled and bundled off.
I linger in the hollow shell.
Doors gape open, vacant mouths
where voices and footsteps once existed.
The house inhales deeply, holding
its breath as we load
the ringed van like a broker’s treasure trunk.
One final sweep to bid rooms farewell -
I was small then, but tall enough to stroke
the doorframes like ancient trees, tracing
each painted curve of memories shed.
Too young to bear the weight of leaving.
Through the windshield, the house dwindles
to a speck between mango trees. I clutch
my cardboard keeps as we trundle forth,
leaving tire prints of goodbye
carved in the cracking driveway.
