I've lived in this place for fifteen years --
played in the yard, imagined worlds,
stacked its stones and picked up its sticks,
uncovered every nook and cranny of the vinyl facade --
and every corner of it is filled with memory.
This is the place I learned woodcraft and herblore,
how to hunt and fish and live outdoors,
the names of the animals and their behaviors,
where I saved a toad and a chipmunk from death,
where a robin died, and my dog did too.
He's buried in the backyard, now,
back near the woods where his soul can run free,
chasing the deer and the 'possums and 'coons
and having arguments with scamper-happy squirrels.
I used to dream of living here forever
back when I was younger and didn't know any better.
I guess I never really understood
in my heart
that I would one day leave,
and that, if I left, I might never be able to return,
because,
now that I have to,
I don't want to, even though I would have left next year.
Maybe it's the circumstances.
Maybe it's the permanence.
The fact remains that I will have to leave,
like it or not,
and it hurts so much to give up this place,
not because of something we did,
but because of the way the world is.
It hurts to leave behind the memories
because memories fade so easily without objects to embody them,
and what hurts most of all,
because it's all I have left of him
aside from a battered photograph
and his tatty old leash
and his loose chain collar,
is leaving behind his grave.
---
This is a very personal poem, but I would still like criticism and comments. I wrote this during a very difficult time when my family was going through great financial difficulties and there was the very real possibility of losing everything we owned. On the brighter side, even though we lost a lot, we wound up being able to keep the house and property (including my dog's grave), though for how much longer, I don't know.
