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Bittersweet
would be if they turned your parent's
house (which was once your house)
into a National Historic Site. The government
would reforest the scrub woods where you used
to hide from your brother and sister. A preservation
society would make an exact replica of your
tree house, which would be located at the mid-
point of the nature trail. And your bed would
always be made and the Barbie-doll bodies
with Ken heads would be on display in glass.
But you'd have to leave at five o'clock,
because it closes then. The half-burnt Polaroid
of Bentley, your first dog, would be neatly framed
on a wall where no picture ever hung. The family
forgot to snap a Kodak of him with his Santa
hat by the tinseled, plastic Christmas tree
and didn’t have the cash for a velvet portrait
done by a local artist like the rest of the Rottweilers,
before the UPS van ran him over one day and kept
on going. And Rastas, your second, lounges permanently
by the fireplace, stuffed, always smiling, easy
to pick up, a tourist's favorite photo-op.
Then to top things off, there would be the simulated
smell of your father burning leaves and the hint
of Lemon Pine-Sol in the kitchen where your mother
never cooked. No plaque by the sink commemorates
your brother, who hungry and bored, opened
a can of Alpo and started digging-in with a soup spoon.
And you, feeling much the same, got down
on your hands and knees and sipped from the water
bowl, your nose wet and snotty, your imaginary
tail wagging in the air like a finger.
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