When she was younger,
my aunt wandered open houses-
asking about appliances, disclosures-
never to buy.
She walked through other lives,
voices echoing in bare hallways,
curry pressed into kitchen walls,
towel shelves labeled for Stuart and Ashley,
a dead wren curled in the attic vent,
angel ornaments nailed to a maple
with a plaque For the lost children.
She despised the staged ones-
rooms polished too clean,
gray carpets that never knew a body,
couches that never sagged
with anger or grief.
She wanted mess,
hair in the corners,
cracked linoleum like dry riverbeds,
a house confessing itself.
I once saw her return,
shoulders tight against weather,
keys like a rattle she never learned to use.
She climbed the stairs to her condo
above the clipped green of the golf course,
set her coffee on the sill,
and sat quiet-
her life ordered,
pared down,
afraid of leaving
any trace behind.
She never spoke of the reservation,
and I never saw it.
Our family folded into the city
like laundry hidden in cupboards,
tamed, pressed smooth.
She prowled those houses
the way I prowl memory,
searching for proof people lived,
uncontained,
unsanitized.