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That big brown house

in Windsor.

I lived in the basement,

across from the

broken pellet stove.

In Winter,

my feet would get chilled

by the cold brick floor

on my way to the bathroom.

That house was always cluttered,

no matter what level you were on.

My floor was filled

with old t-shirts and clothes,

my dad’s album collection,

and big, grey bins

that my oldest brother left behind

when he moved out.

My room was dominated by a lonely pair of bunk beds,

the bottom long since vacated

by a boy I wouldn’t see for years.

I imagine myself going back to that house,

as cobwebbed as it had been when we moved into it,

so that I could scrape the dust

off memories I’ve long since buried

and lay to rest others

I’d rather leave behind.

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