The House - The Home Poem by Daniel Brick

If I were you, I would not live
in this house, sprawling across a landscape
populated with worn-out memories. Let others
take charge of it, so your hands are free
to open the nearest door and you can walk
in any direction you choose because all of them
will be a-w-a-y. And don't look back!
I'm not aware of anything as severe as
the punishment of Lot's wife - What's her name?
The woman turned into salt... But you don't
want that last sight of your ancestral house
haunting your memory. It's bad enough you call it
a home. Dispel things in the heart the way you
dump old furniture and ragged clothes.
Start by recalling all its flaws,
the hardships it caused you,
the times it failed you, when relatives
looked askance, or quietly laughed
behind their gloved hands.
Remember it as derelict, dilapidated, doomed.
You will liberated in due time. When you count
your blessings, it will not appear. When you recall
your beloved father, he will be standing in a grove
evergreens in the north country. When you see
your dear mother, she will be quietly napping
on a cushioned bench outdoors. Such false
memories will eventually reconcile you to your fate.
In a decade or two, there will be just a mist
in your memory, an occasional hollowness in your heart
but no more weight of the past. Better that absence
than a persistent hope which connects to nothing.
I can teach how to create artificial memories
which will create a real happiness within.
After all, what is more important: the truth
of your existence, or an everyday happiness?