Memory Box


I’m carefully studying this place that was my beloved.
I’m walking carefully around my home.
I’m stepping in places that burst open a memory box deeper than any ocean.
I’m tiptoeing through comfort and growing up.
I’m pushing through painful times
I’m skipping through the joyous ones.
I’m reliving arguments and triumphs. Everything means something to me. That carpet we bought with mom and went out for coffee after. Those new couches my parents saved for. The wooden floors that I helped restore with my own two hands. The spot for the Christmas tree. My dads favorite spot to sit. The area of the coffee table I steam burned with a pizza box. The area that in my heart means thanksgiving. My brothers man cave that I watch project runway in. When I move out I hope all these memories are engrained in my heart. When I am on my own, I hope I remember the soup and the football and the Polish that made me who I am. I hope that this dream house keeps me grounded. I hope one day I found a house to fill with new memories that are half as good as those that are filled to the brim in this house.


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