The Roof is Leaking
I began to understand
when the house started to crumble.
Little by little, cracks in the ceiling spread
like arms of lightning
with the falling dust serving
as the storm’s raindrops.
The playing cards’ edges began to curl.
The hands that held them began to shake.
They were growing old.
It’s not something that you grasp
when sipping in the summer sun at age eight,
when everything seems eternal,
but I began to understand.
The wave that knocked me down
was followed by a similar pattern of water,
engulfing me in the same salty wholeness
that the water two years prior held.
They were growing old.
I could not begin to fathom the idea
of one day never again journeying to see them
to hold them
to tell them I’m thankful
that they were there to tuck me in
and make me milkshakes well into my teens.
I started thinking of what was beyond
the tiny world in which they lived
the one outside the life we all took pictures of
and made memories within.
Pool, trampoline, horses.
Playhouse for the youngest.
I desperately clung to the hope that they’d
witness the moments of my life I needed them to.
I desperately hoped that whatever took them
was gracious in doing so.
What would be waiting for them?
A light, maybe. Surely not fire.
My fantasies of their eyes reconnecting to mine
after years spent stuck in a great divide
clouded my every thought.
I thought of being able to tell them
everything they had missed.
I thought of scanning the white room
and spotting them from afar.
I thought of their voices,
tinted with the humor and giddiness
of friends long since parted being reunited.
Wrinkled hands outstretched to me, saying,
“Come, sit a while.
Come, talk a while.
We’ve been expecting you.”