We used to  play in the shade

of that old brick house,

estranged from its first family,

overwhelmed by pink bougainvilleas.

We unsettled the dust of another time,

our feet bare and curious,

our fingers electric and clumsy.

We filled its interiors with cacophonies

of laughter and arguments,

the smell of smoke, and mulberry stains.

Unthinking of whether we were welcome.