When I was small and not yet sentimental,
My whole world was all magic and my old, creaky, home
that hid behind the shadow of a wieldy White Ash.
It wasn’t a home without the steep, secret stairs,
Narrow hallways and dipping ceilings,
The echoing piano, and the smell of cookies.
My dark house was constantly filled with light.
I’ll remember the summers.
When I gazed at the faint glow of fairy-lights and fireflies,
I was a daydreamer dancing in the noisy night.
I would run around during rainstorms,
barefoot, barreling down the singing street,
parading through every puddle, dripping with delight
‘till the booming thunder made me retreat.
I would search the sprawling suburbs for adventure,
Wearing wet white converse covered in creek water
And go spying for new creatures to catch.
My whole world used to be awfully small.
Presently in what seems like perpetual fall,
I think with sense, not sensibility,
and reality is ripping me up
with its twisting time and truths.
As I move far, far away from there,
my sleepy eyes stare into
train windows that turn to mirrors.
Unprotected and unprepared,
I must leave at last.
I wrote this poem last semester about moving out of my childhood home. It was incredibly bittersweet…And then we didn’t end up selling it.