The House That Built Me

They cut down the tree. It’s gone. The tree that shaded our porch and dropped leaves in the gutter is gone.
They painted the walls. The kitchen was green but now it’s yellow. My room was rust and now it’s gray.
All of the couches are leather. I never would have stood for that.
The fireplace is kind of the same, I guess. But the mantle has been replaced with what looks like pine, and bottles of ocean water no longer rest there.
They put up a new mailbox. The numbers are fancier. The post doesn’t wobble.
They always keep the edges of the driveway manicured. It’s all asphalt now, after all.
They took off the blue front door and put up a red one. All the shutters are new too.
Speaking of blue, the barn doors seem to be closed for good. The stalls must be empty. The tractor tires are certainly flat.
I understand that the changes were bound to come eventually. That’s not my home, but the house knows me. The walls know my voice, the floors remember my step, and the roof probably misses my company on clear, cool nights.
But to each his own – it’s not up to me. I just can’t believe they cut down the tree.


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