Myrtle Avenue
I remember: Late night
summer games, stippled sunlight
between apple blossoms,
our skin fresh
as sudden snowfall in May.
Train whistles at night–
Invitations to leave.
Today’s a clear autumn day in Troy, NY,
I’m strolling down Myrtle to number 23.
How did I forget the sound of these birds?
Maybe they don’t want to be remembered;
they’re so briefly here.
What if our old house doesn’t know me
anymore, or what if
it regrets us?
Our big messy family.
This house, so well-kept now.
Why does it seem like I was never here?
Memories make us too heavy to fly–
we are all time-travelers,
with pockets full of plums.
I look up at the decorative scrolls
outside the attic. They still resemble
smiling faces.
This was our home for a long while–
tin-ceilinged kitchen, bay
window a perfect fit for the Christmas
tree Dad cut down every year
at a farm outside of town.
My bedroom window
in the upstairs back corner.
The Dutch Elm tree
that overlooked it, long gone.
Too the wide-striped wallpaper
sprinkled with violets.
I can still see Mom on a ladder, carefully
measuring, cutting, aligning
the repeating patterns,
then brushing on wet glue.
I feel a sudden longing for her to be here, now.
The way everything collapses under me, again.
It’s always the same dream.
(I need to know who to blame.)
I thought I had this at least—
that she was still alive
in the past.
But here I am, at childhood’s door,
empty handed. I want
to believe some tiny molecules
of her breath still tumble
with the dust and sunlight
in the kitchen,
at the sink,
water running,
the window, open.
Jackdaw Review, October 2025