A poem about starting over for MamaKat’s Writer’s Workshop.
Warnings heeded, we left you
Alone in the storm
Took what we could – not much
Dogs and photos, mostly
We watched the colors approach
While you felt the water rise
A week passed by, homeless
Before we saw you
Red brick, still standing strong
Insides out, upsides down
Saved what we could – not much
Metal, plastic and glass, mostly
Hauled the rest to the street
A lifetime of soggy memories
Over the past two years, I’ve regularly dreamed about my house. My first house – all mine. Decorated in everything that symbolized me, all completely destroyed by rising waters. In each dream, I’ve rescued my home, repaired the damage, and carried on making memories within those walls – walls that were built by my family years before.
Two nights ago, for the first time, I dreamed we left the house. We took everything we could fit in boxes, bags and pockets while the walls began to crumble and the floor began to disappear under growing puddles of brackish water
But the house didn’t look the same. The details were wrong, as if I had forgotten them.
I think finally, after I’ve put years and miles between my old home and my new one, after I’ve built a marriage and birthed a child, my subconscious is beginning to let go of my old life, one small piece at a time.