On Thursday nights,
in the fog of DDT,
hundreds of insects
fell silently from the ceiling.

On other nights
the house’s added-on room reverberated with the sounds of teenaged cousins who with summer friends  danced to songs about purple people eaters and witch doctor’s remedies for lovesickness. From our bedroom window
my brother and I looked out on this enchanted place, never imagining  that anyone could grow too old for it.

Even when he was bedridden after a stroke,
my grandfather expected
the never-ending party to continue.

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