The Archway
my great-grandmother had a house
she’s gone
but the house breathes
its strange breaths
strange faces
strange furniture
strange footsteps
imprinted by foreign feet
I remember the house
and it’s frightening to think that someday I won’t
that nobody will
that the memory will die with me
you’re getting so tall
she said before we left
beneath the archway in her living room
neither she nor I will ever stand beneath it
again, I am frightened that the memories
won’t be memories anymore
not that they will be conflagration-charred
cataclysmically-consumed
made holed and holy by a marksman’s arsenal
but that they will dry up and fade
wet footprints on concrete
during the fourth of July
when the weather was warm as the parade marched by
I sat inside a home I might never see
again, I am frightened
that anyone and everything is only mine
for a little while
that life is only for a little while
