It was new built,
that house on Northridge Avenue
and stepping through door brought smells
of sheetrock and varnished oak flooring,
echoes off heels exploring
empty rooms,
a picture window overlooking
dirt and stone waiting for a green lawn
and a basement of fresh poured cement
holding a boiler still tagged
with a manufactured date
that would bring heat
and hot water to thirty years
of winters
 
Wild carrots poked through
that stone lawn as I watched my father
with rake and sweat 
through August weeks,
bringing that following spring,
green sprouts, soon a blanket
all washed in the arc of sprinkler,
and walked on, cooling bare feet
while sipping lemonade.
 
My mother got a rose bush to bloom
and soon, bees and curious birds
joined the family
and neighbors sat evenings
on the stoop, sipping coffee with gossip
and laughter.
 
I smell that house today, its newness,
my youth and remember as if it was fresh built
only yesterday with me the lucky inhabitant, and in time,
joined by a brother and sister.

I pass that house, now in new hands,
knowing every nail and creak.
The lawn still lush, the maple tree sturdy
where a youthful climb waited for a call to supper.

As I drive off, I look in the rear-view
remembering it all, wishing I could extract
conversation and laughter from the simple walls.

The Return

It is cooler today, second day of September 2022

Before eggs I drove to the old house I visit from time to time
just to connect. The Maple tree is gone, just a twig when planted
by my father, growing tall through the years and now it is gone.

As with my visits before,
I would look in the rear view, remembering the days with nothing more important than the ice cream bell.

I looked, the tree is gone, and I know my visits will be brief
from this day on.

J.D. Senetto

On Friday, September 2, 2022 at 1:49:42 PM UTC, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> It was new built,
> that house on Northridge Avenue
> and stepping through door brought smells
> of sheetrock and varnished oak flooring,
> echoes off heels exploring
> empty rooms,
> a picture window overlooking
> dirt and stone waiting for a green lawn
> and a basement of fresh poured cement
> holding a boiler still tagged
> with a manufactured date
> that would bring heat
> and hot water to thirty years
> of winters
>
> Wild carrots poked through
> that stone lawn as I watched my father
> with rake and sweat
> through August weeks,
> bringing that following spring,
> green sprouts, soon a blanket
> all washed in the arc of sprinkler,
> and walked on, cooling bare feet
> while sipping lemonade.
>
> My mother got a rose bush to bloom
> and soon, bees and curious birds
> joined the family
> and neighbors sat evenings
> on the stoop, sipping coffee with gossip
> and laughter.
>
> I smell that house today, its newness,
> my youth and remember as if it was fresh built
> only yesterday with me the lucky inhabitant, and in time,
> joined by a brother and sister.
>
> I pass that house, now in new hands,
> knowing every nail and creak.
> The lawn still lush, the maple tree sturdy
> where a youthful climb waited for a call to supper.
>
> As I drive off, I look in the rear-view
> remembering it all, wishing I could extract
> conversation and laughter from the simple walls.
>
>
> The Return
>
> It is cooler today, second day of September 2022
>
> Before eggs I drove to the old house I visit from time to time
> just to connect. The Maple tree is gone, just a twig when planted
> by my father, growing tall through the years and now it is gone.
>
> As with my visits before,
> I would look in the rear view, remembering the days with nothing more important than the ice cream bell.
>
> I looked, the tree is gone, and I know my visits will be brief
> from this day on.
>
> J.D. Senetto

You really can't go home again.