The sunlight that crawls between hydrangea leaves
while moss roses stretch and mouse through cracks in the stairs
Neighbors who share their sweet ouzo
with stories about Portugal under low apple branches
I don’t want to pack them away into thick plastic boxes
and haul them into a moving truck
Far from living room picnics with thin red quilts
spread long over the carpet by the TV
Or hours picking blades of grass from the soccer field
and smearing my fingers green
Someone else will play knee hockey in the hall
and learn to ride their bike over weeds out front
And pick the blue crocus flowers from the boulevard
before the squirrels trample them back into the dirt
They’ll grow to love everything I miss
about the house with the sold sign on the lawn
Kate Koch has synesthesia, which means she sees every sound and thought around her as a color. Because of her vivid condition, she enjoys reading and producing writing that makes the the a little more colorful. She is currently an ALM degree candidate at Harvard Extension School, and is in the process of editing and soon querying a murder mystery novel. She considers herself a horror writer, though her published work is more heartwarming than horrific.
