The keys that once opened the door to your home—gone.

The birthday where everyone you loved was alive.

The border wasn’t a border before a man drew a line.

Gone are the spaces where we were all free to roam.

And the skyline transforms into a cacophony of shadows,

and the forest line becomes a little less dense.

More of us are alone now, minus the echo of past laughter.

We clean the clothes from our beloved’s closet, find
a donation place down the street.

Several species of birds, the fence around my childhood home,

my first school, my oldest sister.

Every seven years, the apple trees are netted with caterpillars.

Last year’s wildfires, acres of evergreens licked by flames.

Gone is the last bottle of bourbon we bought with my father.

Our recycling bin is littered with bottles, marking
empty evenings of beer.

Another marriage. Gone. As are the rings. Someone’s hand

on her hip. The shape of a kiss.

Gone is the ivy that wove its way through the cracks

of the fireplace into the living room, even though the bricks

still hold its silhouette.

Each autumn, the trees remind us how brief our seasons are.
The rainstorm washes away the leaves from the street,
the child’s chalk drawing of a flower,

handwritten words I love you dissolving into the drain.