White horses are
I cannot tell my world from theirs.
Coral, I watch wildflowers
Bloom before my eyes.
The breeze to me
Feels like a wave,
Tousling my hair.
I don’t think I belong here,
My home is not there.
The day the grand piano was tuned, no one remained to play it. When the carpets were cleaned, not a soul walked the halls.
The lonesome house was being scrubbed to make space for new life—but wasn’t ready to let go. One could feel in the air a note from a lullaby never finished; it sought attention from anyone who would listen.
Empty were the chairs round the table and nothing baked in the oven. The curtains, once open to admit light of the sun, remained shut like a barrier to keep out the New.
Who, now, would rush down the stairs to greet the postman? Would anyone sit at the balcony again?
The house remembered, and was loathe to let go. It longed for the sound of children laughing and the cheer of the lamps. No one walked its halls, and it wondered why no one considered the pain of spaces where memories were made.
The house was not an empty shell; in silence, it mourned with the family.