An Old Home/A New Home
by Lyndie Mesina
Your chin was a roof and your arms were the walls.
Your kisses were high ceilings and your lap was the floor.
Your words hung tapestries and painted pictures modeled
after Monet and I hung them on the wall and admired them
every day. Your heart was the hearth and the fire was always
going. I stoked it with laughter and eyelash flutters and open
legs. Your eyes were a big bay window in the back of the
house, opening up to a big, green maple tree. I made
blueberry pancakes every morning and sipped my coffee
with a grin as I listened to the content hum within.
Then I came home one night and someone had turned off
the kitchen light. The cupboards were open and half my
silverware was missing. I laid on the couch and the fire was
still going. I looked at the walls and only saw nails banged in
plaster. Then I think it was the next day or the day after, heavy
blood clot red curtains hung on the windows but I peeked between
and the tree was still green. I put a cracked bucket under a leak
in the ceiling. More days passed and I think the power went out.
The roof had collapsed and there were holes in the floor.
I looked out the window and the tree wasn’t there anymore.
I huddled around the fire and rubbed my hands like sandpaper.
I thought, this must be how cavemen felt. I fed the fire with promises,
ultimatums, bargains, threats, pleas, remember whens, and it’ll get betters.
I begged and begged until my tears put the fire out. It took months
for me to get my stuff out, box by box, day by day. That old house
says it’s foreclosed now, all rotted and decayed. I’m looking
for a new place, but I like to drive by it when I’m over that way.
Lyndie Mesina is a 2019 graduate of Ball State University with a BA in Spanish and English. Born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, Lyndie can be found knitting, cooking with her dad, and spending time with her niece when she isn’t writing or serving tables. This is her first publication.