the loft

i've made plans before.

i've made plenty of well orchestrated and thought out events that play over and over in my head like a bumped-into-compact-disc. but while sitting in this darkened box of a living space, i remember plastic smiles. glimmering teeth burned into my memory somewhere between:

a. the need to pay the rent,

and

b. my first girlfriend.

dinners played out on sunday evenings. fine china winking under heavy light living in the ceiling. china that shines like it has a secret that you'll never know.

wooden floorboards so frequently trafficked, intelligent feet can go undetected.

and these nights are the nights i miss the most.

in a bench supposedly filled with chlorine, tablets, and other cleansing materials

we stored guns and ammunition.

we stored hope and childhood.

we stored happiness and shelter.

and now i've reached the first shelf of this great climb, and i've found that these are the memories you share at dinner. these memories are why family gather. and so we gather. and so we share.

and we are family.