I don’t invite them
but they spirit their way in
through cracks in the foundation
and gaps in window jambs,
through yawning spaces no
amount of insulation or spray foam
can completely seal
in a 200-year-old house.
They come to die.
Or maybe they lack such mortal
knowledge when they arrive
just looking for a place that’s warm.
I recognize the gassy sweetness
escaping from the hall closet,
remembered from winters past
in radiator vents when the heat came on
or the dark beneath the gas stove.
That winter I needed a flashlight
to confirm his unreachable presence
in his final resting place cradled
between two floorboards.
This one found its way
among clutter of damp wool
and dysfunctional umbrellas
saved just in case
to the crate of winter boots,
treads caked with mud.
Cushioned insole a comfortable
bed for eternal hibernation.
It was early December
a day of false thaw
when we brought him home
from that place we feared
he would spend his last days.
Better to die here, we thought,
as he crawled up the front stairs
and came in through the front door.
October Hill, October, 2022
Elise Chadwick 