A memoir to 866 Genesee Ave

As I vacuumed the empty rooms, the night before we left,
I saw the shadows of yesterdays, and days before tracing echos deep within the floor.

Where children danced.
Where children stubbed toes.
Where stood our Christmas tree,
and the red curtains hung to celebrate a royal birth.
A corner where I had rocked and rocked my newborn boy and then paced and paced the floors.

I took my time in the dark, the hum of the vacuum was distant,

I was hearing Louis Armstrong and felt the memory of a husband's hand around my waist learning to lead a Lindy.
I saw three couches that had at one time or another stood in the same room only to be replaced by my fickle-furniture-frenzy by another.
The wall we painted three times.

I took care to clean the very edges of the room, yet I did not move a thing,

but still I saw the pile of snow covered boots heaped with little white mittens melting by the door.
I heard the laughter of friends and smelled their good food.
I felt the loneliness of a long hot summer, and heard the giggles of children when once again in the hug of their father.
I let the tears wet my cheeks, I let myself feel, smell and touch before my yesterday was gone.