I nearly forget the lines of that house that carries my memory to one hundred years of solitude (that soul-stirring book), so grand and deep tired with its loose roof tiles and sagging porch.

And I’m forgetting those other decomposing things in our neighborhood.

The paint chipping and siding falling, the cardboard boxes filled with free stuff turning to mush on the curb.

I miss the old lady purple crocuses beginning their spring through dead leaves and the swish of my own coat and

the crunched Christmas trees leaning like forgotten men against houses.

I am feeling like these walls might be all there is. So I walk and I

see harvest gourds ignored, drinking their own juice and fermenting into puddles on porch tables. See stakes marking fences to build and holes for someday trees.

I walk and I feel breath whirring, jet black birds cawing, dogs echo barking, planes roaring against streaked clouds.

I’m noticing again all that beauty happening in the air and the undone where there is no sorting or stacking, and things fall apart. Sometimes I forget that mess is beautiful, when voices and hands move all chaos in this three-story house,

and blocks tumble and tap shoes clatter on wood floor.

But I’m awake and walking and breathing now, and I don’t want to miss what happens here with these loud feet and shaking giggles and decomposing vegetables in produce bins. I am awake.

I don’t want to miss it.

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