There is a home, far along
this windy road. If you travel
down for a quarter of your day,
you’d be sure to make it there.
When you arrive to see
the steppingstones to the wood
porch, swing, and door,
admire the beauty of what was.
Once you are ready and you knock
on the door, it’s like you hear Nana
say Come in, but your ears can’t tell.
You’d go to open the door
but the door will not budge.
The birds will not chirp
and the frogs will not croak.
The grass is not mowed,
and the swing is not swung.
The blinds are not open,
and the lights are not on.
Nobody’s home.
Out of the little things I can
remember from my youth,
still, the only thing that stayed
in the sun precedes trying
to brighten the day. After finding
the steppingstones that led
to your wooden porch, I sat
in the swing that hasn’t been
swung since I was young.
I move my feet and along
came the creeaak, the noise
of the old rusty swing, the swing
we’d sit on to watch the rain.
“Don’t ever start smoking,” you’d say.
“I won’t Nana.”
Then you had a smoke and I a coke.
But nobody is home.
I close my eyes and pretend
to hear the birds, the sweetest sounds
you ever heard. I look over to see us
children standing by the road.
We’d be selling lemonade
by the flower beds, then you’d turn
your head, see the weeded fire pit
and the stilled chairs where we used to sit,
but if you close your eyes and open your ears,
you can hear uncle’s laughter as he makes
the wood burn and crackle.
Oh, how I yearn for yesterday.
A million yesterdays ago, I’d bust
through your door. I’d give you
a hug and you’d tell me, “I love you more.”
There was never any competition,
for you always loved me most.
You loved me more than the Christmas
garland wrapped around your stair posts,
or you’d love me more than the floral
arrangements you used to share. You love me
more than your morning coffee in the makeshift
breakfast nook. You love me more when you gave
me that good-first-taste-of-your-food look.
I look at your house, and I find I loved it most.
I smell the homestyle cooking from your oven
as it roasts, I can almost taste it, and I can hear
your singing and see you dancing around the kitchen
chairs, where I used to sit. It’s almost dinner time already,
I must go and get it all ready. Nana is probably waiting
for me to set the table in her dining room.
I can’t wait to go have her homemade food.
I get up from the old rusty swings and go to open the door,
but the door will not budge.
The birds will not chirp
and the frogs will not croak.
The grass is not mowed,
and the swing is hardly swung,
The blinds are not open,
and the lights are not on.
Nobody’s home.
Amber “Nic” Lewis is a senior graduating from the University of the Cumberlands in the Spring of 2022. She is a Theatre major and Communications minor. Poetry is a hobby that she resorts to writing about the memories she holds sacred.
Pensworth 