Coming home to my memories

It's been many years since I stood at this door.
Somehow the house seems much smaller than before.
Where I spent my childhood, this is the place.
Old friends remember my name, but not my face.

Memories of my younger days come flooding back,
like someone had emptied the contents of a sack.
Emotions swell inside leaving tears in my eyes,
as I recall the joyous hellos and solemn good-byes.

Through this empty house my footsteps echo clear,
as I enter the room where I spent my first year.
It was here that I learned how to crawl and walk,
where I first learned how to run and to talk.

Once filled with jovial laughter this silent hall,
where I can almost hear mother's voice still call.
The rooms that are now barren, dusty, and cold,
spring forth with visions from the days of old.

I can still picture the rooms as they used to be,
during the time when I preserved it in my memory.
Occurring without conscious thought, it's automatic,
as the memories all gather like dust in the attic.