My house is a time capsule.
Memories reside within every wall,
In every stain, and in every scratch.
Pictures freeze a candid moment
Of elated faces and twin attire.
I see me, giddy with a toothless grin,
A young girl who had the senseless idea
To cut her own hair the night fore picture day.
This moment: frozen in time and exploited in frames,
For the walls to listen in and laugh at my foolishness.
My house is a time machine.
As I trace the walls with delicate fingers
Over the annual pencil markings,
I see the shadow of an evergreen
Growing taller with each birthday.
This instance records time’s swift passage,
And the walls smile at the bittersweet reminder.
My house is a time warp.
There are no clocks
Or masses that coo the hour.
Rather, the convoluted stems of plants
Communicate the generations.
Passed down from the hands of my great-grandmother,
To my grandma, my mother, and I.
This occasion tethers one generation to the next,
And the walls eavesdrop through leafy barriers.
My house is a time bomb.
When stress erodes my conscious
Like a lethargic flame consumes a match,
I seek my room.
My sanctuary, my retreat.
The walls bear my secrets, and tears, and smiles.
They uphold worldly maps with promises of the future
In pin marked destinations.
To make new memories
That will line new walls
And create a new time capsule.