Proof

Just an old shed is left to stand
against the slow invasion
of termites and weeds and time.
The house is gone,
and has been for years.

Once I drove past where it used to be
on my way to nowhere in particular
and nearly drowned
in a flash flood of memory.

We lived in the apartment upstairs
where the fire was said to have started.
Maybe arson.
Maybe a careless cigarette left burning.
Nobody knows.

We lived there when my children
were still children. In the mornings
I waved them off
from the end of the driveway,
giving good fortune little more
than a parting glance
as the school bus rolled away.

I remember the night my ex-wife called
to tell me about the fire,
how she and her mother stood
on the opposite side of the road, watching
with tears in their eyes
as the flames consumed it all –
the place where we once ate and slept
and watched our kids grow.

Out in the middle of that wild field
my daughter spent hours
jumping on a trampoline.
My son shagged fly balls
on crisp spring nights,
balls I hit out to him
while practicing for Little League.
The woods out back must be full
of rotting baseballs.

A few days after the fire,
I pulled into the driveway
and stared at what remained.
Before leaving I snapped a few photos.
I can’t remember why.
Maybe as proof
that we were ever there at all,
how far we’ve drifted since,
innocence lost along the way.