This is just a story.

Old Breath:

My grandfathers breath wheezes like a cat locked out on the porch.

This room is filled with leftovers and I want them reheated.
I’m not at home here.
The customs are unfamiliar, like a museum, I expect guards.

I’m attempting to navigate
with maps of old photographs,
the old stories.
I guess you had to be there.

I hear my sister’s fingers tapping a computer keyboard,
And I follow these clicking breadcrumbs home.