Last days at [insert location]

 

The only memory the almost broken

Sewing machine holds is of my fathers

Feet as they sync into it to weave my mothers

Yarn.so we let the machine stay, we take another

Look at the room, everything seemed to have

Given out its color of originality.

The dwarf guava tree withers strangely

So most times we do not sweep the

Exiled leaves, we let them rot to the ground,

We let them rot to silence —to sand.

My mother would then ask what I needed before

We left, I’d be left between choosing my fathers

Memories and my mothers peace

I would then steal the entire house

And its memories, hide them behind a

Brain pathway in my head       If anything is worth holding

Unto, it’s worth keeping forever.