12.31.08 (day 21)

inside the house
they kept thirty years
worth of history.
it wasn’t under
lock and key,
but hidden carefully
in the folds of blankets,
and standing quietly behind
cabinet doors.
it was in the cracks
between oak slats
on a hard wood floor
that has never been softer,
and thus,
never louder.
each creak is the sound of past indiscretions,
the path worn
by feet
stumbling toward rebellion.