House Poem by bob barci

Passing through the old neighborhood – once again –
I stopped at the house I grew up in.
Again,
I found myself thinking –
“What a shame.”
Some changes were made
but – still – for the most part – neglected.
Someone called out my name.
I turned to see an old neighbor –
who still lived there – two houses away.
I was told that
people were seen at the house
only on weekends
and drove a car from New Jersey.
Being a weekday,
I became bold.
I walked up the driveway
and peered into the garage.
Even with the extensions
Dad put in the front and back of it,
it looked quite small and narrow.
How on Earth
did Dad get two cars in there?
I walked on to the front porch
and wondered if it remembered me.
I took a chance
and went to the gate on the side of the house.
Still
the same one I opened and closed thousands of times.
Did it remember my touch?
On the side of the house
I could see the bathroom air vent that Dad put in.
But then – I couldn’t help notice –
the backyard covering that Dad
painstakingly built – was gone.
How dare they take it down
and not use it for what it was meant for.
Overall,
the backyard seemed quite small.
Was this the same huge yard
I remembered even as a young adult?
The cement patio that Dad put in was still there. (continued)

Thank God.
But the shed, off the garage
with the beautiful little fireplace was gone
and they never bothered to take up the green tiles that was the floor.
What on Earth
were they thinking when they did this?
The beautifully manicured back part of the yard
was now a disgraceful mess.
I turned and slowly looked up.
There – my bedroom window.
In my head
I pictured the room and recalled all the times
I looked out that window.
To only do it once again.
On side of house
there was a small vestibule
that led into the kitchen.
Whoa – the door to it was open.
It still had the same knotty pine wood panels.
I turned to face the wooden kitchen door.
I knocked and waited
for an answer I knew I wouldn’t get.
I placed my hand on the doorknob.
Perhaps – for the best – it was locked.
But I stood there – frozen.
What if I got in?
Would the rooms
realize it was me?
Be happy to see me?
Would the walls
call out in pain –
haunted with the memories
of not so pleasant things that happened there?
Suddenly – I became overwhelmed
with the feeling that I shouldn’t be there.
Maybe the house knew it was me
and was angry that I abandoned it all those years ago.
Silently, I asked for forgiveness
and that the walls be released from its torment.
I left with a feeling
that I was
and it was.