There used to be a house here

A poem for grievers.

(photo by the author)

“There used to be a house here -

a lovely tudor with thatched windows,

day lilies laugh

ing by the driveway,

racoons in the garage,

kids sneaking out and then in again.

Then there was the year without a Christmas.

A procession of black cars and headlights.

A patent leather shoe parade.

Black umbrellas and my mother staring out the kitchen window.

our grief tore the roof off, sent shingles into backyards three blocks over,

and the rain drenched the attic until the stairs dripped through the second floor,

onto the soapstone kitchen counter that Dad picked out eight months before dying

(that hadn’t been the plan)

and Mom stood at the counter, palms down, bony fingers curled under,

trying to keep her soul tethered.

Grief got her too though, made her skin drip

pulled her face down to the ground and

eventually, the kitchen melted into the basement -

soapstone floating on top like cream.

There used to be a house here

before the fire water grief rains came.”

—

The insurance adjuster pushed up his eyeglasses,

“Looks like an act of God to me.”