My across-the-street neighbors are moving.
An Indian family, the Nairs.
The father got a job as a professor in California.
He used to be a professor at Cleveland State.

I don’t like seeing the realtors
And I especially don’t like seeing families
Tour the house that used to smell of
Far-away Indian spices but now smells of
Carpet cleaner because
That sells houses better.

I will miss Mohan, the only son I knew
Because he was my brother’s best friend.
They used to walk home from school together
And ride bikes with my sister and
Other diverse kids in the neighborhood.

I once found a note Mohan wrote
To my sister. It read:
“Dear Dannie, I’m sorry I drank your
Snapple. I know you really wanted it.
I hope we can still be friends.
Love, Mohan”

Except they can’t still be friends because
My sister lives in Denver and has a real job
And Mohan is in college in Columbus
And he’s never coming home because
His dad is a professor in California
And their house is empty and useless and
There’s no more SAT prep classes
In the basement,
Just boxes holding leftover Indian Trinkets
And the whole f***ing house smells
Like carpet cleaner and there’s a realtor’s
Box on the doorknob and there’s a thousand
Cars in the driveway for an open house.

And someday, soon, my parents will move too.
And I’ll never come home.

Things just change, I guess.