A House But Not a Home

As he walked into the broken home of his so called childhood,
He sighed and longed for the dreams
That were held from him by the cold grasp of the past.
The door frame chipped,
Scarred from years of slamming and abrupt exits.
Through there lies the decrepit furniture,
Bodily impressions on the couch after many nights of bitter sleep.
It was all coming back to him in nauseating vividness.
The stairs to the second level of trauma
Were weary of the furious stomps thrown upon them like bricks.
Not wanting to face the demons residing there,
He paced to the kitchen, his heart a sinking stone.
A shadow cast itself upon the fridge,
Once withholding the liquid fuel
That lit his father’s drunkard rages.
The stove was stained and spattered
From dinners made in grief and in vain.
He moved up the stairs to answer
The ghosts beckoning from that time.
His room had a dense, fearful atmosphere
of countless nights in fearful isolation,
The windows still fogged from shallow breaths and tearful agony.
Turning from the room, his gaze met the corridor
Leading to the master bedroom.
A ringing came to his ears in memory of all the fights.
The desperate cries from a long tired marriage were deafening.
The last straw was met as he heard the sharp echo from that repressed time.
Agony overcame him as he left, for he had only returned for a final visit.
The house was to be demolished by his whim.
It had been left to him by his father’s will,
Along with the dark memories.
Cirrhosis had pulled the cruel blanket of death over him, ending the tragedy.
The son drove away for the last time.
Expecting nothing from the morose homecoming, he left with closure.
What he left behind was a house,
With no warmth to give it the vibrant life of a home.
Love wasn’t there, after all.