No handprints in cement have I left; a kindergartener’s palm and splayed fingers in plaster of paris, white washed, chipped and ultimately broken–what’s left mended, remended–hangs from its ribbon on a now non-nomadic woman’s sunlit wall.
My favorite dog I buried in her yard beneath an old cedar; Cinnamon and cedar remain together.
The windows behind which I finished my homework were transient. I never learned to play an instrument, though music led me from room to room and door to door.
The house we all called home vanished, along with its generations of Naked Ladies*. Though the bones still stand, home it will never be. No place to touch or feel, none to ground me, none to heal.
(*Amaryllis belladonna; variety often referred to as “naked ladies.”)
(c) 2013 Sandra Davidson