1st Place, Poetry, 2021 Literary Awards
the sidewalk under my feet seemed somehow
harder than the concrete elsewhere
under my soles, it felt like
scraped knees
waiting for the bus
trick-or-treat
gas station ice cream runs
mindlessly, i found my way past the only square with
gravel to the one peaked like mountains from the
large oak tree’s roots that snaked their way
beneath the path and broke through the top
brown bark gripped the trunk
that i stood next to for my first day photos
that i fruitlessly tried to climb when the
shade of the leaves was the only respite of summer
i turned right onto the pathway to the house
dirt covered the lawn
where the shade forbade grass from growing
two concrete steps up
a mailbox to the left of the door
the small stone house stood with
a quiet yell on the busy street
a house no one paid attention to
but everyone could picture
large windows were a screen into
the daily comings and goings of our lives
dinner and breakfast and staring out, waiting
for friends to arrive
the door was painted the same
red, mom always painted our doors red,
with tan accents
like square frames on the wood
i can picture the inside
creaky, basketball court thin wood planks
roughed up by decades of clambering children
and heavy-footed dogs
the rooms small enough to feel
suffocating but big enough to hold memories
old, stained carpet in the living room
and a brick fireplace that we never lit
a mantle with our photos or trophies
or stockings and warped-glass windows on either side
our oven was from the fifties
and our table from great-grandma
but the life in the house was new and bold
teeth lost and inches gained
a doggy door Ceili only started to use
just weeks before we left
and a cabinet so full of art we made
that we could never quite shut it
the bathroom fought over with
bobby pins and zero counter space
the area just outside the door
where i stood on my sister’s feet
and played penguin before brushing my teeth
an old linen closet that was perfect for
hide and seek and filled with quilts
and comforters and towels and coats
and smelled of mothballs and
dryer sheets
our unfinished basement that
held more life than the entire
upstairs
and dad’s office back where we
stored old clothes and school supplies
in the backyard we had a
hot tub (but never a trampoline)
and a patio set that was loved for too many years
and forests with fallen tree trunks
that we called our dragons
by the tree i planted in kindergarten,
we found a deer skull
and back by the firepit, baseballs would
fly into our yard
the backyard where our dog
befriended a deer
and where i learned to walk on
pine needles barefoot
where dad broke his finger
taking our dog outside
where we’d run into the snow after
soaking in the jacuzzi
the garage held the ufo box
where we collected random objects
and right next to the garage, our basketball
hoop where i learned i am terrible at horse
but as i walk back with them now, the new owners,
to collect something sent to the wrong spot,
i peek in the windows and the walls are a different color
and the hot tub is gone
and the trees that i climbed that woodpeckers loved,
disappeared
Bridget Massey is a sociology major who likes to read and garden in her spare time. She finds inspiration for her poetry in nature. When not in class, Bridget likes to spend time with her dog and watch trashy reality tv.
