My house is a time capsule.

Memories reside within every wall,

in every stain, and in every scratch.

Pictures freeze a candid moment

of elated faces and twin attire.

I see me, giddy with a toothless grin,

a young girl who had the senseless idea

to cut her own hair the night before picture day.

This moment: frozen in time and exploited in frames,

for the walls to listen in and laugh at my foolishness.

My house is a time machine.

As I trace the walls with delicate fingers

over the annual pencil markings,

I see the shadow of an evergreen

growing taller with each birthday.

This instance records time’s swift passage,

and the walls smile at the bittersweet reminder.

My house is a time warp.

There are no clocks

or masses that coo the hour.

Rather, the convoluted stems of plants

communicate the generations.

Passed down from the hands of my great-grandmother,

to my grandma, my mother, and I.

This occasion tethers one generation to the next,

and the walls eavesdrop through leafy barriers.

My house is a time bomb.

When stress erodes my conscious

like a lethargic flame consumes a match,

I seek my room.

My sanctuary, my retreat.

The walls bear my secrets, and tears, and smiles.

They uphold worldly maps with promises of the future

in pin marked destinations.

To make new memories

that will line new walls

and create a new time capsule.