i miss the ring of the telephone
the steady metronome of the grandfather clock
the soothing surge of rain overflowing the clogged gutters
the creaking of window panes late at night
the sound of sprinklers
and the croaking chorus of amphibians that lulled me to sleep
i miss the way the car leapt off the pavement
every time it hit the bump in the driveway
curling my hand down along the swirl of the bannister
skipping stairs in perfect step
the soft old keys of that poorly tuned piano
i miss the big green couch
that soaked you in as you sat
and the books
scores and scores of them always comfortably surrounding me
familiar, like old friends, even if my eyes had never graced their pages
i miss that big tree in the front
the way the clematis hung lazily from the eaves
the bright green mosses, everywhere
and the slugs, slippery, slithering in the rain
i miss the rain.
expected.
awaited.
persistent.
it was dependable.
i miss the evergreens
and the ocean
and the mountains
the vast expanses of untamable, unconquered land
at my disposal.
always there.
ever-changing
and yet unchanged.
i miss the red door
and its constant collision with the laundry
the sounds of football on sundays
accompanied by leftover pizza
and the voices most familiar to me
i miss the rhythm of that life.
