Memory is the house next door.
\nThe large house that keeps changing.
\nNeighbors moving in and out.
\nMaking friends.
\nPutting up a fence.
\nWhen I was small,
\nthe name next door
\nwas an Irish name.
\nA man who kept building
\na building, never completed,
\nat the rear of his property.
\nI heard his mother
\ncall him to supper every evening.
\nHe was married, but still being raised.<\/p>\n
And the large, windowless building
\nhe was raising became still, after time.
\nThe loads of cement
\nhe wheeled up a plank
\nto pour into the mold of the walls
\nstopped.
\nI was too small to understand
\nthe irony of it, then.
\nIt was a pyramid in which
\nits priest was doing what
\nwas ordained to be done.
\nTo leave four great walls
\nfor the Pharaoh\u2019s remains.
\nIt was one theory of several
\nthat came to me, as I
\nwatched the certified craziness
\nof McCoy acted out.<\/p>\n
It was, that the moment
\nwe are born,
\nwe look for a place
\nto be reared,
\nin sync with the soul that
\nwe are meant to be.
\nI moved away before the structure
\nwas finished.
\nThe site has been leveled.
\nDeath laid his head down.
\nLater as I collected my memories
\nI thought of McCoy.
\nA sweet man, and in a mysterious
\nway, profound.
\nI laugh sometimes when
\nI see him inside me.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Memory is the house next door. The large house that keeps changing. Neighbors moving in and out. Making friends. Putting up a fence. When I…<\/p>\n