For almost fourteen years I’ve visited that house
sometimes twice a month.
Soon it’ll be sold, maybe to a new family or my biggest fear,
to someone who wants to tear down the century-old home.
But either way,
Gigi won’t be there.
The walls may be stripped down
but all the memories will remain.
We won’t have the woods to explore
like Gigi and I did constantly.
We won’t have the golf cart to drive down to the peacocks
where they screech and dance.
The furniture is still there for now,
but the house feels cold and empty.
It’s the same house
but it’s not the same home.