i hope they don't push in the kitchen chairs.

i built this house
from a one-bedroom apartment
to a home,
with the touch of a good woman
floors packed down with
the heavy stomping of two boys
learning floor hockey.
i lived here.

i hope they don't make the bed.
i never have and i never will
has always been my -
i never will.

i dug a hole for the pool,
filled it with sunburns
noodles, tubes, splashing,
summer nights after the sun went down
shoes and clothes by the back door.
i lived here.

i hope they don't put away my TV Guides or
tidy up my recliner pocket.

i filled the cracks in this driveway
with band-aids to cover skinned knees
paint flecks from the garage
that started red but
turned white with age.
i lived here.

i hope they don't put my favorite mug back on the shelf
where i have trouble reaching it.
where i had...

i hope they don't clean,
vacuum,
sweep,
scrub,
sterilize,
paint it fresh
to make it seem
new again.

i collected this dust and those scuff marks around the corner of the stairs and the dent in the wall we hid behind our wedding photo.

i hung these memories.
i tore down the wall in the bathroom
and the one between me and my boy.
i lived here.
i built this house.

i lived here.

i lived.