We lived in four wooden houses,
one right after another,
all weathered with peeling paint
and dried out lawns,
small garages like playhouses in back.
I’d pack the car
full of clothes, pots, bedding
and in each we would leave something behind.
Plants, or tools, a milk crate filled with books,
a bicycle too cumbersome to load.
Someone could have tracked us,
following our trail
like animals in the woods,
our hasty departures,
our leavings, our clues,
pieces of our lives
snagged on thorn bushes
as we hurried past.
Published in 2 River View
Photo by Marius Christensen on Unsplash