twas in this room

I'm sure there's some
breath left in there.
The house becomes
from wood steps worn bare
by tiny and large feet both,
in the come and go
that creates growth
and yet we know
the separation, too,
that plagues the place
when one, turning sixty-two
says "enough and there is no grace
in holding on to this abode.
Twas for my heart and she
alone in this room had sewed
and mended for me."