Houses and Homes

I grew up in four houses
(and one apartment).

The first
was on Third Street
and it was a living hell.
Not a home,
never.
Fighting, yelling, anger, sadness.
It was a place I lived in
and nothing more,
and a place that I was not sorry
to say goodbye to
at thirteen.

(Good riddance.)

The second
my mother's father built
with his own two hands.
It was not a home either,
much too stiff for that.
But I learned to swim
in that pool,
how to drive
on that lawn.
I miss it
sometimes.

(Oh well.)

The third
was on Bridge Road
and my father grew up there.
A home for sure,
though I didn't realize it
at first.
I came home from the hospital
to this house.
I came home from summer camp
to this house.
It is now owned by a family of five,
not related to mine,
and looks nothing
like before.
I miss it
always.

(Should've realized sooner.)

The fourth
was on "The Hill"
as we like to call it.
It is where I ran away to
before I knew how much I would miss
Bridge Road.
My cousin and I
spent our days here,
playing Nintendo 64
and eating chicken nuggets.
No one lives there now
since they moved away,
but I still look in the windows
when we go to Tracey's for Christmas
and remember.

(It's empty.)

The apartment
is close to the Third Street house
and is not really a home
either.
It symbolizes both the beginning of the end
and
the end of a beginning.
I do not think I will miss it later but
I have been wrong before.

(We'll see.)