I visited the house after several years,
This time, not to spend my holidays-
My grandfather died.
Nothing had changed, except,
The porch was covered in moss,
And the stream behind the house was thinner.
Cousins from London and Zurich and Paris laughed endlessly,
Overwhelmed to see each other.
They exchanged usernames as I sat alone on a wet rock by the stream,
Recalling an afternoon from my teenage holidays.
The heat on my cheeks when he held my hand,
Our wrinkled feet dipped in the ice cold water,
A sin enough to forget each other by the following summer.
I walked towards my grandfather’s house,
As night fell slowly like curtains dropping after a magic show,
Stopped abruptly at the entrance. Remembering,
At the funeral I had overheard my brothers and father’s brothers-
They said they’d sell the house,
Before it was completely covered in moss,
For that wouldn’t yield them money enough.