The Old House
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The old house has a smell that follows me—
into every house I have lived in since,
a ghost of wood and particular light
and the quality of every old offense
and kindness—the arguments held in the kitchen,
the laughter that the living room contained—
the smell of the house where I grew into myself
is the smell no candle has explained.
I went back once and stood at the door of it.
The new family had repainted and rearranged.
But underneath the paint, I found the smell—
and for one second, nothing had been changed.
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The old house has a smell that follows me—
into every house I have lived in since,
a ghost of wood and particular light
and the quality of every old offense
and kindness—the arguments held in the kitchen,
the laughter that the living room contained—
the smell of the house where I grew into myself
is the smell no candle has explained.
I went back once and stood at the door of it.
The new family had repainted and rearranged.
But underneath the paint, I found the smell—
and for one second, nothing had been changed.
