the kitchen door frame
is full of ink markings.
lines drawn
off the top of heads.
dates, separated by
names.
but the house is empty
now.
there is a ghost breeze
that blows
from the open door
to the back.
the children are grown,
the family
that once lived here
is gone.
you read the names
and numbers
out loud,
then take a brush,
dipping it into a bucket,
covering them all up,
gone forever
with white paint.
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