The Day I Moved Out I never knew the smell of nothing, until I packed up my kitchen. Spongy scrambled egg used to sit on the ledge of the window to cool in your cold, china bowl. Your toes used to tap and parade on the wood, your nose making grunts like the propeller of a boat. I’m here, I’m here, I’m waiting, I’m here, when the bowl touched the ground, the egg was engulfed. I never knew silence, until I sat in the front. The carpet used to snore and whine in its dreams, while strong, smelly fumes used to pour and float. My feet rubbed your belly as you lay in the way of everybody’s path in the middle of the room, your head popped up if I stopped for a second, my socks and skin was your tummy’s masseuse. I never knew sleep, until my room was stripped bare. No more dark-lit wanders to the garden’s back door, while you scurried down the path to the astro-grass. You inhaled the outside in a string of snorts, while I cradled my gown to warm my goose bumps. You toddled back quickly and hopped back inside, before I’d locked up, you were plonked back in bed. I never knew chores, until I finished them fast. You used to pounce and intimidate the ironing board’s legs, protecting your family from its suspicious wrath. No discrimination, the lawn mower was too, your large, loud enemy that you showed who was boss, charging and marching with your mouth like a cave, trimmings of green getting stuck to your face. I never moved out, until you left us behind. My address is the same but I don’t know this house since you took your last steps and moved from our home. I never knew love, until I met you, my girl, a soul like our Lola’s can never be cloned, your heart may have stopped, but I’ll carry you in mine.