The grass around the house brushes my shins.

No water.

No electricity.

 

The dead tree—

where vultures perched, scanning for prey—

has collapsed into the yard.

 

But things remain—

the broken Friends mug in the sink,

dropped by one of the boys.

 

Their beds unmade.

A folded Harry Potter shirt waits on the dresser.

 

I will pack these things—

the dreams we cradled inside this house—

and carry them with me.

 

To set them free?

Relive them?

Transform them?

I twist them in my mind,

shape them with my hands,

 

and finally let them go—

like the breath I’ve held

since the police took you away.