Home. - Zephyr Hameem 

Remember the steady strength of
the Japanese maple, how its deep
ruby paired with the shutters 
we painted carmine, and how
goldenrod leaves blanketed the grass
from autumnal cold. 
 
Our visions, ones we had while
holding each other, infused
new life into blank walls,
life that knew the creaminess
of soft yellow, the tenderness
of pinks, the love of a sky blue
mingling with minty lime greens. Re-
member the peace it all brought, how 
we didn’t feel alone, how we felt like
we finally made it.
 
The patio, once empty, full
of white flowers that fell from 
their chili pepper plants, storm-struck 
cherry tomatoes laying in soil, the 
flowers we’d pluck from our little
pumpkin patch to fry later, the
eager calls of grasshoppers
conversing on summer nights. How 
we knew seasons changed 
with the bloom of daffodils. 
 
Hold every detail of this
home, our home, into which 
we wove strands of magic. Hold them
in your heart. Ten years
old when it became ours, now a 
sturdy seventeen. This family of
four grew with five.
 
This home with its staircases 
where we sat and laughed 
till we couldn’t breathe, 
until there were only 
tears left…you used to say
that you’d never dreamed we
could live in a house with stairs.
 
Though we prepare 
to shed the skin of past selves,
packing bags, stuffing boxes to
the brim, the colors remain. Our
handpicked softness, our touches.
Though the backyard is swept clear 
of bell pepper seeds and gardenia
petals, within the soil, the tomato seeds
lie buried, ready to grow again. 
As we lock the door and
take one last look at the fading
carmine shutters, everything
 
stands still, silent. Those walls 
that absorbed our names and
our stories over the years, 
will they remember us
the way we remember them?