When the powers had parted, their paperwork signed,
the house was costly, and couldn’t be kept.
Mom got spackle, paint, and primer,
and soon the rooms were well-repaired.
She got fertilizer, seeds, and fixed the garden;
saw to the end our place would sell.

We were homeschooled, David and I, and dreamed
of science, and recorded episodes
of Newton’s Apple, NOVA specials,
Living Edens. Life at the Frantzes’
was frozen dinners day and night,
Michelina’s Chili-Mac,
or Sirloin Supreme, or the best: baked ziti!
Those days she let us have two for dinner.

Furniture could move. We made
every arrangement, making room
for the games, the games! We got going with gloves
and sticks and bats and balls and pucks,
playing hockey in hallways and soccer
with chairs for goals. The games we made up—
like penalty shoot-out, first to ten.
Eveningtime, after ESPN,
David drove left with the puck, and I panicked,
I slipped, and surely he’d score, and I’d lose,
and I leapt as he shot, and right there, it was lodged
in my glove. Amazing! he yelled, and was glad.
I loved my brother. I’ll always remember,
when four became three and we thawed every meal
and the house had to go, I swear to God,
I leapt last-second, I made that save.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 2, on page 28
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https://newcriterion.com/issues/2014/10/the-move