We stood in a row
beside the fence, staring
at a bulldozer finishing the job.
Only the chimney stood, bricks tangled with ivy.
Names and heights in pencil on the kitchen wall –
gone, along with steamed windows,
stew bubbling in a pot.
Root cellar emptied of turnips,
spuds and onions from the garden.
Fallow furrows ran to the road with
lilacs and hollyhocks on guard at the gate.
Dad took her hand, head against his shoulder;
we followed. No one spoke
as we filed to the car then
down the dirt drive to the highway
and our new house in town.
After a long career as a hotel director and a short career as a blackjack dealer, Kaye Bartholomew is living her best life as poet, volunteer and traveler.