a couple feet off the ground.
I'm sure I can see the child behind them-
maybe laughing, maybe crying. 
 

Half-squashed bugs

stick to every inch of the walls,

grime staining paint beyond recognition.

Parts of the floor are rotting.
 

The windows are caked with dirt

and the food in the pantry is swarmed by flies.
Negligence is a disease,
and no longer is this house a home. 
 

Dust coats the floor,

so thick it is hard to breathe.
In the corner of my eye I see
shadows of a family's footsteps.

And now it is my job
to scrape away the bugs
and scrub away the handprints
and mop away the dust.

Half the house goes in the trash
and the other half is washed away
with elbow grease and solemn eyes.
Every trace of their life here slowly disappears.

It wasn't always like this, it never is.
I'm sure sun used to pour in through the windows
unhindered, sweet warm honey flooding rooms.
I'm sure photographs hung on the walls.

I'm sure they laughed and danced through the halls,
hugged and kissed and read bedtime stories,
ordered pizza and popped popcorn,
and chased each other up the stairs.

I'm sure they cried and argued and pounded on doors,
flushed red with anger and shouted in defense,
threw boxes and papers across the room,
and melted in defeat on the couch.

I'm sure they filled this home with noise and life.
But now, only quiet.

Now, I scrub and my arms ache,
ache,
ache.

I stand and know my pain is just as fleeting
as their existence here was.
The blink of an eye, ephemeral and graceful
and tragic and lost.

The love and grief of those I have never known
leaves me riddled with an odd nostalgia.
Soon, all evidence of man, woman, and child will be gone.
Soon, only memories will remain of what they had here.

And I know- now, I know-
that eventually the same will happen to me.