May 2017
The first time I walked into my home was when I was five,
My mom and her best friend Louise signed me out of school,
we ate McDonalds on the hardwood floors and looked at the bare walls,
they were actually blank canvas's, waiting for life's pictures to be painted upon them.
When I was eight, my sister and I got into a fistfight,
in our shared room, a mere five feet away from my parents.
They knew it was time for us to have separate rooms,
and they turned an old den into a makeshift room that night,
where my sister would sleep until her teens.
I remember Sunday mornings,
stumbling down the stairs with sleep in my eyes,
and hearing oldies playing on our stereo,
smelling a big breakfast cooking.
I remember Monday mornings,
procrastinating to come downstairs and face the Canadian winter weather,
my mother getting ready for work,
but not before making us toast even though we never had an appetite in the morning.
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
I spent countless days and nights in my first room,
always an introvert, always alone with my imagination.
It went from playing with Star Wars action figures,
to playing guitar, to writing poetry,
and eventually when computers were the big thing,
I spent my teen years playing xbox and downloading music.
Some nights I drank in that room.
Most nights I smoked countless joints and cigarettes.
A few times I even did mushrooms,
paranoid the entire time my mother would open the door and question me,
but usually she was more concerned about the candles I lit to cover the smoke,
100% certain I would light the house aflame.
My sister eventually moved into the basement,
the same one where we would sit on the rough carpets,
far too close to the TV,
playing Legend of Zelda, and Greenday's "******" blaring in my ears.
I'm still half deaf till this day.
I remember falling asleep outside,
rocking back and forth on our cushioned swing,
surrounded by greenery and sun,
bird chirps intermixing with my mp3 player.
I remember my modest above ground pool,
and my sister teaching me how to swim at six,
only taking breaks when she would attempt to drown me.
My sister moved on and I moved into the basement,
and spent an entire weekend painting and making it my home.
Bright green paint with lilac purple,
and posters of Sid Vicious, illuminated by lightsabers.
My mom got sick with Cancer,
and I remember sitting in the living room while she cried,
telling myself she would be ok,
that she would live even against impossible odds.
I remember coming home from overnight shifts at the women's shelter,
lying on the shaggy carpet and watching her with half lidded eyes.
"I'll go to bed soon."
A week before Christmas my mother moved into the old den,
the one my sister moved into when we were so young,
so she'd no longer need to go up the stairs.
The same stairs we used to slide down on with pillows.
I would lay awake in my basement, listening to her footsteps,
the same footsteps that used to wake me up far too early.
Now keeping me awake and on edge,
ready to run up to her in case she needed help.
I remember Christmas morning,
how the walls echoed "she's gone" and "call the doctor."
How my father sat at the living room table, pouring himself drink after drink,
how my sister lay on the couch crying,
and I, trying to make my mother proud, cleaned the house.
I was alone for years,
in a house that wasn't a home,
my mother dead, my sister moved out,
my father taking anything of value to his new home, with his new girlfriend,
a woman who shares the same name with my mother.
But not the same heart.
I stayed in my basement,
getting high and writing poetry,
listening to music so there would be another voice but mine.
The first time my wife walked into my home,
she surveyed the damage done to the house and made it a home again.
A nice mixture of our belongings now mix with my mothers,
keeping her memory alive in every room.
We spent many nights in candlelight, inlove, laughing,
and again the house had life and love in it.
This summer my home will be sold,
and in a matter of months this little 50's house will be destroyed.
Our medium sized lot will make room for two modern buildings,
and the twenty-three years spent here will be demolished.
There is mold in the basement,
the electrical is gone to ****.
The drywall is crumbling, the paint is scratched,
and the plumbing is sketchy at best,
but this home will always stand strong in my heart.
My mom and her best friend Louise signed me out of school,
we ate McDonalds on the hardwood floors and looked at the bare walls,
they were actually blank canvas's, waiting for life's pictures to be painted upon them.
When I was eight, my sister and I got into a fistfight,
in our shared room, a mere five feet away from my parents.
They knew it was time for us to have separate rooms,
and they turned an old den into a makeshift room that night,
where my sister would sleep until her teens.
I remember Sunday mornings,
stumbling down the stairs with sleep in my eyes,
and hearing oldies playing on our stereo,
smelling a big breakfast cooking.
I remember Monday mornings,
procrastinating to come downstairs and face the Canadian winter weather,
my mother getting ready for work,
but not before making us toast even though we never had an appetite in the morning.
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
I spent countless days and nights in my first room,
always an introvert, always alone with my imagination.
It went from playing with Star Wars action figures,
to playing guitar, to writing poetry,
and eventually when computers were the big thing,
I spent my teen years playing xbox and downloading music.
Some nights I drank in that room.
Most nights I smoked countless joints and cigarettes.
A few times I even did mushrooms,
paranoid the entire time my mother would open the door and question me,
but usually she was more concerned about the candles I lit to cover the smoke,
100% certain I would light the house aflame.
My sister eventually moved into the basement,
the same one where we would sit on the rough carpets,
far too close to the TV,
playing Legend of Zelda, and Greenday's "******" blaring in my ears.
I'm still half deaf till this day.
I remember falling asleep outside,
rocking back and forth on our cushioned swing,
surrounded by greenery and sun,
bird chirps intermixing with my mp3 player.
I remember my modest above ground pool,
and my sister teaching me how to swim at six,
only taking breaks when she would attempt to drown me.
My sister moved on and I moved into the basement,
and spent an entire weekend painting and making it my home.
Bright green paint with lilac purple,
and posters of Sid Vicious, illuminated by lightsabers.
My mom got sick with Cancer,
and I remember sitting in the living room while she cried,
telling myself she would be ok,
that she would live even against impossible odds.
I remember coming home from overnight shifts at the women's shelter,
lying on the shaggy carpet and watching her with half lidded eyes.
"I'll go to bed soon."
A week before Christmas my mother moved into the old den,
the one my sister moved into when we were so young,
so she'd no longer need to go up the stairs.
The same stairs we used to slide down on with pillows.
I would lay awake in my basement, listening to her footsteps,
the same footsteps that used to wake me up far too early.
Now keeping me awake and on edge,
ready to run up to her in case she needed help.
I remember Christmas morning,
how the walls echoed "she's gone" and "call the doctor."
How my father sat at the living room table, pouring himself drink after drink,
how my sister lay on the couch crying,
and I, trying to make my mother proud, cleaned the house.
I was alone for years,
in a house that wasn't a home,
my mother dead, my sister moved out,
my father taking anything of value to his new home, with his new girlfriend,
a woman who shares the same name with my mother.
But not the same heart.
I stayed in my basement,
getting high and writing poetry,
listening to music so there would be another voice but mine.
The first time my wife walked into my home,
she surveyed the damage done to the house and made it a home again.
A nice mixture of our belongings now mix with my mothers,
keeping her memory alive in every room.
We spent many nights in candlelight, inlove, laughing,
and again the house had life and love in it.
This summer my home will be sold,
and in a matter of months this little 50's house will be destroyed.
Our medium sized lot will make room for two modern buildings,
and the twenty-three years spent here will be demolished.
There is mold in the basement,
the electrical is gone to ****.
The drywall is crumbling, the paint is scratched,
and the plumbing is sketchy at best,
but this home will always stand strong in my heart.
After living here for twenty-three years my father has decided to sell my home. For the past four years I've lived here alone, with my girlfriend, and recently with my sister aswell. The next chapter in my life is exciting, but I've been feeling down knowing my family home will be destroyed. Such is life, I suppose.
