An old blue shoe,
a cake of soap,
are all that remain
in the house
on Hempstead.
Sitting in a corner
tracing lines in
the linoleum
I picture the way
she peeled avocados,
chopped onions
and sang.
We were happy
once weren’t we?
A family of three.
With so many
plans and procedures.
The wax we had
molded, the hair
we had brushed.
Promises made, kept
and broken.
The Rockwell that
hung on the wall.
When exactly did
the glass break
letting out the
whisper of despair?
When did the hum
of the furnace
silence, the snow
seep through the door?
Sweep it soundly
in the dustpan,
set it out to sail
along the lines
of the racing freeway
to the dump sitting
high on the hill. 

— Kelly Cahill