(for Ashley and Kevin)

The one where we grew up, which is no longer ours,
which belongs to the next generation in the family
who have, thankfully, spiffed it up and made it their own,

so much so that if my sister and I closed our eyes,
we could still walk down the long hallway on a
newly revealed, long-hidden wood floor, and find

the bathroom between our two former bedrooms,
with a lovely tile floor, fresh paint and a far
nicer shower, sink potty than the ones we knew.

Our forebears have gone. We are the elders at
the table now, along with the parents of the young
wife in this house, whose young husband

resembles his grandfather, our father who
brought our little family here in 1966, the guy
who all winter was itching for summer,

antsy to get the turquoise ski boat back
in the lake across the street. The boat still
lives here, and today new relatives visit—

little ones and grownup sisters and their
partners and another grandma, too. And we
who sat in this room last year, watching

our mother finish a long lifetime,
find ourselves a mixture of grateful and
gobsmacked by the transformation,

thankful this Thanksgiving for the carrying on,
for the restart, as we feel the presence
of the ones who set us down in this house

so long ago, who left behind—to our surprise—
only the love and a ski boat born a half century ago,
eager to find the water again.