On the Sunday when my father’s grandfather died,
Father got up early and went to the house, yellowed
With age and perched on a wishy-washy foundation.
When he returned late that night, he only said,
“It was cold in that yellow house.”
I always wondered what he meant by it, until yesterday—
The Sunday when I got up early and went to my own grandfather’s house,
Yellowed with age and perched on a wishy-washy foundation.
Darkness followed me, swallowed me in every room of
That empty husk of a home. Shadows crouched like hooded figures.
Elms with black, twisted fingers chipped away remains of vinyl siding.
The wind, too, weaved itself into the backyard tree line,
Whispered eulogies and rushed into the open doors in short bursts of anger.
How I feared the settled spirits of that house, that empty house,
Where I played as a child, unafraid and unaware,
But left tonight in a frenzy of grief and fear, face yellowed
With age and knees creaking like a wishy-washy foundation.
My sister asked me how I was
When I returned late that night. I only told her
“It was cold in that yellow house.”