I won’t ever forget the smell of old lace and dust resting on the shelves. The light green shag rug that had been loved and danced upon, the corner of the kitchen with tiles beginning to dry and peel. The bathroom so stale and blue and white. The cracks in the floor were tiny and so intimate.
At night I used to look over at you playing cards at the table under the dim light and a moth would float by. The perfect lull you created with your wrinkled broken hands, repeating the same movements around the gray edges of the cards; there is beauty in everything.
The drapes were yellowed from the sun and the smell of the ocean couldn’t escape them. I ran into the morning and the cold grass and I didn’t stop until my feet touched the sand. I had a red bike. I was young and whole and wasteful. If only I had been older.