Ghosts of Small Houses

…and she read in the tea leaves that time, that long ago, sepia-colored time,
that there would be a marriage and a house and children,
and pain and wounds that healed
and wounds that never, can’t, didn’t;

When they say ‘rattle around’ they mean exactly that.

It’s a sound only the solitary can hear. That empty, echoing sound. That rattle
Bouncing off the walls (never straight—how could they have built a house with walls that were never straight?)
Falling innocently from the ceiling down upon your shoulders
While you do dishes
Using as much water as you want now; letting it run down the drain unchecked, unaccounted-for.

Your house is so small, mom. Not enough room for us, the dogs, the suitcases;
I have to work this weekend;
We’ll come up for dinner—let’s go out.

Shopping takes no time. In and out, no need to linger there. No need for family packs, money-savers, bulk buys.
No need to dress all day. The bell at the front door, does it still work?
Things stay tidy. But that dust, sneaky dust, settles on it all, patina of the desert.

It can be still enough to hear the voices of those long dead who lived here before you. They chat In the basement, near the work-bench. They rap on the door at dawn
It’s time to get up, we have to go to work now
Make our lunches.
At the edge of dreams in the morning, they can be heard tromping heavy boots on linoleum,
Starting trucks in driveways
Tools clinking in the back.

The smell lingers still, fainter each year
From that flannel shirt on the hook by the door
It rises like a whisper,
Like a stroking finger across the back of your neck.

Each day is now just a blank page
Stained brown at the edges by the tea leaves.

A list grew there once.