[northern lad]

a bed that pulls out of a couch, hard steel bar and thin mattress below. the crinkle you hear sometimes that makes you think there’s a pee-guard mattress cover below. but that usually only comes to mind in the fog that sets in, as you roll onto your other side, right before falling asleep. a chiming clock she forgets to stop winding. a chiming clock that goes off every fifteen minutes. the crackle and the warmth from the fireplace beside the bed. the lack of privacy that comes with sleeping in the family room, feeling as if you were on display in a museum. the way everyone tries to be quiet, talking in the kitchen, as you pull the covers up over your head. a battle lost, as you give in and get up a few minutes later. the faint sound of the cars passing over the bumps in the concrete on the street in front of the house. the back room in the basement that seems to become a little less haunted with each passing year. the basement where you first learned to shoot pool. the basement where your cousin sang “you light up my life” for you, along with her record, when you were little. the computer you used to play jeopardy! on. a dish of candy in every room. meals that begin five minutes after the previous ones end. an ice maker that never has worked. the third ice maker that hasn’t worked. the drawer of pens. homemade molasses cookies with whipped cream. the high stool the spun around, that you weren’t ready to say goodbye to when you finally became tall enough to no longer need it. the phrase, ”the light and the fan run off of two different switches,” that you hear every single visit. the phrase that still makes you smile every time you hear it. a room filled with twenty people who love you and make you laugh. people who make you smile when you see them, and want to cry when you say goodbye, knowing that you only see them twice a year. it’s the little things like that, that make you thankful. a lifetime of memories that were created on one day out of the year.