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A House of Memories
Four generations of my family have lived in that house,
everytime I pass it fresh memories are aroused.
It was once filled with laughter, music and conversation,
now there’s only creaking floors and insect habitation.
My younger sister and brother were born in the master bedroom
and their cries are in my memories as they left mum’s womb.
With the midwife shouting for more hot water and towels,
and dad pacing the floor listening for the new baby’s howl.
The happy times ended when sis fell from her bedroom window,
we all blamed ourselves and for years we suffered in sorrow.
Mum and dad spoke as if she was still about the house each day;
to them reality had died and their sadness was hidden away.
Soon after my older brother went to war at the age of eighteen,
he was captured by the enemy and never again seen.
My granddad was killed whilst working underneath his car,
the jack gave way and he wasn’t missed for over an hour.
My young brother was an adventurer and explored the garden well,
the rope snapped and he drowned, it must’ve been hell.
Mum and dad had so much pain and distress locked inside,
they said nothing could stop their misery except suicide.
A week or so later, the morning began unlike any other day,
the master bedroom was quiet in an odd sort of way.
My twin sister and I had this feeling of gloom and despair
we broke down and cried before we got upstairs.
We entered the master bedroom and saw mum and dad,
in each others arms, no longer looking sad.
And now there’s just my darling sister and me,
who daily live with our childhood memories.
poem
by
Orlando Belo
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