The Other House

Here I am, at the other house.
The house I did not grow up in
I have not come home from school
to this unfamiliar collection
of walls, furniture, appliances.
My belongings are not here,
because I don't belong.
I lay here in a bed,
much too big.
and listen for the non-existent
traffic to pass my window as it
does in my now empty home.

I catch myself wondering
about the people who once
called this their home.
Why did they leave?
What did they do when they saw the house
ablaze
everything they loved going up in smoke.

Has anyone else lay in this
cold room sleepless
or thought of sneaking out the window
for a midnight stroll.
Were they ever curious
of the graveyard just up the road
and the frozen ground
beneath the snow.
Did they like the constant
trickle of the river in the spring
or loose their breath
on a winter morning
marveling at the complexity
of snow clining to the branches
of the surrounding wood.

How was it different
if this was their home?