My childhood home has eggshells all over the floorboards.
You have to watch where you step when Dad is home.
I learned how to tread lightly around the shells from my mom,
Who only broke the eggshells on purpose
In spite;
In defiance.
My childhood home has piles of junk strewn about.
Piles of Mom's depression.
You must be careful not to bump into them
Or they may come tumbling down.
The junk may break the eggshells
On impact
And cause another screaming fit.
My childhood home has a corner bedroom
I used to hide in
And drown out the noise
Outside the door
With music and comedy and strangers' voices.
It was a place
Of semi-safety,
But never enough to keep everything out.
My childhood home still holds
All my dead brother's things -
The car magazine pictures he covered the wall with,
And Christmas lights hung on the ceiling.
All his shirts still hang in the closet,
CDs still stacked by his stereo.
All those things still there where he left them
Twenty years ago.
My childhood home has two separate beds
In two separate rooms
For two separate people
United as one
By the vows they made
So many problems ago.
It is a house of discontent,
Of grief,
And anger,
Anxiety,
And resentment.
It is a house full of unresolved feelings
And unsolved problems
Written over every inch.
