This house

This place,
this house of my grandparents,
has memories that are not mine.
And yet, I am somehow
embedded in the wallpaper.
I linger on the steps,
my hands forever spread
across the railing.
I dwell in the cupboards
and live within the creases
of my grandfather’s chair.
I smell of peppermint
And King Edward cigars.

My voice mingles with others
gathered around the tables,
pushed together to fit more in.
My name is carved into the oyster shells
piled carelessly at the end of the path.
I stain the hammock
that stretched
beneath the mulberry tree.
I am part of this house,
this place of memories
that are forever mine.