she is four years old

toddling around

on wooden floors

like a spinning top,

too short to reach the cabinets or

see above the sink,

clambering atop

countertops

to reach her

pink plastic glasses

she is six years old,

a big girl now,

backpack hanging off of her shoulders,

bounding down the bus steps

after her first day of kindergarten.

through the garage and

into the kitchen,

into the smell

of freshly baked cookies

and into a mother’s arms

she is sixteen

curled up on a couch

in the dim lit basement

in the arms of a boy.

in love.

they smile as their lips part ways.

and when he leaves

(later than her parents had asked)

she knows just where to step

so the floor doesn’t squeak

and suddenly,

she is eighteen

graduated

her room bare now,

unfamiliar

reduced to boxes

and packed in a car for her move up north.

old toys, clothes, letters, and trophies

are the ghosts of her presence

and the house feels empty without her

twenty two now

returning home from college

visiting her siblings

visiting her old room

visiting everything.

the walls are different colors,

the carpet is new,

paintings and pictures have moved.

everything smells different than she’d remembered.

the house had kept on without her

she is forty years old

dressed in her best,

children in tow,

walking up the old porch steps.

the house is cleaned,

immaculate,

removed of its usual dirt and clutter,

memories and comforts

from childhood.

the way you’d prepare it for guests.