shell of this home

you gave me your sweater

you’re leaving

the house on rock avenue

I slept on the roof

clinging to the shell of a home

drenched in memories

of four generations

I see the guilt in your eyes

for making us leave it behind

but you have no choice

your skin is dotted with purple

eating you from the inside out

cancer feeds on you like a plague

and agent orange fills your lungs

you gasp for air

I miss the stars on the ceiling

of my childhood bedroom

I miss your garden

I miss the rocking chair in the basement

I miss you