The Silverado House

I remember merely an infinitesimal fragment of what I have known,

I remember black-and-white checkered floors,

the sound of navy blue skates flecked with silver,

clattering,

as I glided along the whittled edges of marble countertops,

with only my hands as guides,

I remember the sound of axle and bearings against wheel,

the sound of scuffed kitchen floors, leaving behind flawed white squares,

almost marred enough to match the opposing black ones,

I remember my mother’s scolding, despite the amused glimmer in her eye,

I remember the steadiness of her hand as she painted a mural of flora and fauna over the boring, timelessly mundane white walls shortly after,

I remember the brilliantly vivid colors,

the lingering scent of acrylic,

the few stray globules of dried pigment that clustered at the base molding,

I remember the for sale sign,

the empty rooms that echoed every syllable of each and every creak,

the horrible familiarity of dull paint that erased my mother’s handiwork,

washing away every momentous stroke of each of her careful brushes,

I remember driving past that house months later,

nostalgia rushing through my veins, an ice cold current,

surging,

I remember the notice of desertion emblazoned on the front door,

the caving porch, the lifeless swing set,

the limp tree by the window, propped up on the crumbling sill,

silence,

I remember the only home I’ve ever known,

warped,

wilted, weathered by time,

but forever,

home sweet home.