The lights are off,
But there's the warm crackle of the fire in the living room,
Small bodies crowded together,
Laughing amidst a pile of blankets.

The howling winter winds threaten to shake this house from its foundations,
And I can hear the hushed whispers of my parents as they try not to wake me and my sisters.
I know that I am safe.

At Christmas my sisters and I would run around the house,
Hanging lights in the windows that could make our house shine brightest in the dark,
The fireplace still roaring on,
Hues of red and gold that cast a shadow on the Christmas tree,
The one with all the gaudy ornaments at the back.

In the evening,
There is only the faint sound of the fire.
The dinner table is filled with laughter,
The entire family taken residence in the kitchen,
Sharing anecdotes and news about our day.
The room is small for five people,
But it's full, not crowded.

There were five,
Then six,
Then seven,
Now six.

I wonder when we stopped lighting the fire.

Years go by,
And the lights we hang in the window diminish.
The fireplace becomes cold, dusty,
It rattles in defiance whenever the wind blows our way,
As if to say,
"Don't put me out just yet."

The fire was replaced with light,
This house no longer sitting in the dark.
The bulbs burned brightly,
But there was no sound from the dinner table in the evening.
All the seats of that small kitchen are empty,
Chairs unused.

There is no fire beneath the old broken mantle,
But the Christmas tree is up,
The light from above casting a shadow,
Though its all wrong-twisted and warped.
The gaudy ornaments I loved no longer grace the tree.

The sun is up high and the lights are on,
And there is no crackle.
There are loud voices, words sharp and biting,
No one daring to listen too close for fear of breaking skin.
It seems that the only sound that fills the house is yelling,
And the quiet sobs that the walls catch in the depths of the night.
Am I safe?

It's evening in winter,
The house can be seen from miles away,
Not a single room is dark.
The foundation shakes as the front door slams,
I hold my little sister as she cries,
It seems that anger is all these walls will ever know.

The top lock in the living room and kitchen is broken,
Key snapped off inside,
As if someone had tried to turn it hard enough to turn back time.

The fireplace is no longer there.
It's empty and boxes obscure it from view,
It hides the last bit of warmth that this room has ever seen.
When was the last time those blazing embers were felt?
We have grown used to the cold.

The lights are on, but this isn't a home.