The door is opened without hello or welcome,
worn, familiar furniture,
dingy walls with clean rectangles marking pictures already gone,
books, boxes, and papers;
vacant spots on the bare hardwood floor where treasures used to be;
a memory of a blond child playing on the carpet with rainbow colored ponies
in front of thin, crossed legs.
Quiet,
too much quiet,
a silent grandfather clock against the wall;
a whisper- we shouldn ' t be here.
Dust and salty tears, and nothing-
no sweet hot tea, no simple sugar cookies, no savory pasties-
nothing but new tears welling up.
Photographs black and white and color;
smooth, silver spoons and fragile tea cups;
a cracked, well-loved Bible overflowing with clippings and prayer cards;
cluttered open drawers- a jumble of treasures and trash;
the cold stove top and empty tea kettle;
a curled note hanging from yellowed tape by the light switch.
Empty and heart-broken,
longing for tea and cookies and a glimpse of the hands that lovingly serve them;
a wave of guilt, like a thief or trespasser,
this is our last time to visit,
an era has ended,
“We should go.” But I'm not ready,
the door is closed and locked- goodbye.