Memories of a House

I drove slowly
past my grandparents' old home
going up the street,
down the back alley,
studying,
remembering.

I missed it on my first pass,
the new closed-in front porch
masked its face.

I wondered how the current residents
would get to know their neighbors
without a front porch
on which to rock
in a summer breeze,
greeting the others
enjoying the evening.

There was no way
to run my fingers over
the now hidden English ha-penny
pressed into the concrete step.
It was a working class man's dated cornerstone
meant to mark a new post-war life
along the row of squat brick houses
built to shelter the families
the men fought to protect.

And how will the cat play with the mailman,
batting through the slot in the door
at the teasing letters
now that there's a box instead?

Since they made
so many other changes
maybe they finished the basement.
It was always dry.
It would make a good rec-room
where kids can play.
That would help erase
the one great sadness
the house witnessed.

If nothing else,
I hope
there is some ice cream
in the freezer
for a late night treat.

I drove home
allowing memories
and thoughts
roll along with the scenery.
I laughed
when I wondered
what color to paint my hallway...
the one a stranger's Uncle Sonny signed
under the wallpaper I stripped.