Thinking hard enough,
I can see it-
I can smell the old plastic Halloween
costumes,
folded quilts
that had not gifted anyone
warmth in years.
I remember
stomping through and over clutter-
board games used by a family
that I did not recognize anymore.
A photograph printed on a canvas,
bigger than life when you are only thirteen years
old,
that same family
sat smiling.
A small room, no windows,
one door,
meant to hide from the danger of tornadoes,
hurricanes,
inexplicable natural disasters.
It did its job-
I crouched in the corner
behind boxes of knick-knacks.
The “heart of the home,” the realtor had
called it.
But even from here, I could hear
his thunderous voice booming.
Eighteen years, not once did I have to use that room
to hide from the wrath of nature.
But four tan,
cold
walls
proved to protect me from the wrath of you.