Unpacking the Echoes

The narrow staircase groans, just like it did

when I dragged my own junk up, kid

stuff, boxes full of hopes and broken dreams.

My niece, her face flushed, barely seems

to register the weight, the slow, hard climb.

This room, her childhood, caught in time.

Stale paint, that faint, old carpet smell,

a history the walls could tell.

Her posters, peeled from years ago,

left faint, rectangular, ghost-like glow.

She’s stacking books, cheap kitchenware,

the life she built, now folded, bare.

It doesn’t quite fit, this grown-up haul,

against the patterns on the wall.

It’s home, again. Or just a pause.

Another season, breaking certain laws

of physics, maybe, or of how things stay.

It's not quite yesterday, or quite today.