by Alden Hardee

Created on: June 09, 2009

For Granted


Warm gray ashes settled all around me.
Dim orange lights danced sadly about my face,
And my hands and feet burned with cold
Despite the debris smoldering beneath them.
The night sky still retained a small glow,
As the last flickerings of light
Died with the embers of my home.

Gazing at the rubble that was once a house,
I thought I could still hear the static of the TV left on,

The hum of my lunch nuking in the microwave,
Splashes of a shower twenty minutes too long,
The endless clinking of the ceiling fan that kept me up at night,
The shrill creaks of the door that got us caught sneaking out,
As countless familiar sounds
Died with the embers of my home.

I could still feel the itchy berber carpet under my feet,
The wobbly, uneven legs of the dining room chairs,
And that painfully cold toilet seat those unpleasant winter nights.
From the feel of grimy, frayed stitching on a ball that broke several windows,
To the unforgiving hold the frosty freezer door exerted
On my curious tongue one New Year's Eve,
The first of many memories
Died with the embers of my home.

I could still smell the stale, almost sweet summer heat of the attic air,
The essence of burnt popcorn on movie night,
The stomach turning odors of dad's latest dinner concoction,
And the vinyl breath of the photo album that once told
Our most embarrassing moments.
There's the unforgettable aroma of the hall toilet overflowing again,
Or the smell like dirty pennies the worn guitar strings
Left on my calloused fingertips,
As part after part of me
Died with the embers of my home.

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