I never could quite pin down
that feel of Evie’s house.
It had that sunken-in feeling
that comes along one day
when the same people
have been in the same place
for a long time.
It had that smell,
or lack of smell,
that comes with time.
It was always dark and cold,
even in the bright humid sun
of a midsummer Tennessee day.
It was perfectly decorated
by her designer mother.
Not manicured at all,
but honest,
for their mom always loved
life’s little ironies.
Over time,
it came to show
the weight of stress.
A downstairs office couch
slept on more often than not,
slowly sunken in,
the mirror of an upstairs
decompression in the bed.
It was my favorite place in the world to be,
for no matter the hour or time of day
I was welcome there.
I was never told
it was time to go home
or to leave,
only asked
if I was staying to eat.
Even when I was too young to know
there wasn’t any food to spare.
In a way,
I never learned
to relax in my own home.
I wasn’t safe there,
and whenever I had a moment to spare
I would leave, walk two houses up the street.
It became a running joke,
that I’d go to them far more often,
& especially later in life,
from far greater distances away,
than they ever came to me.
I didn’t mind.
We were welcome to be ourselves
at Evie’s house,
to play as children do,
to drink and smoke as young adults do.
My mother was always more concerned
about the mess we’d make.
Evie’s mother bitched
but never truly complained,
never in a way that meant
we had to go away.
We all grew up
when that day came,
when it was time for the house
to go away.
Home has never felt
quite the same,
knowing my loved ones aren’t
two minutes away.
Account For Me 