Ropes worn from the gripping fingers,

Of my children and grandchildren still hung from the trees,

Trees almost as old as the dirt they are rooted in,

The rope was hung when my oldest was five.

But the walls are gone where life was lived,

Each room with intrinsic memories:

The birth of a son in the upstairs, north-facing bedroom,

Little ones hugged and rocked and loved.

Red beans and rice cooking on the fireplace stove,

Litters of puppies romping on the carpet,

Licking little faces and nipping little heels,

And laughter, and stories read, and board games won and lost.

And pain lived in those walls as well,

The pushing, pulling angst, that makes up life.

But standing on this empty spot of ground,

The joy is what I remember.