“Operator, well let’s forget about this call
There’s no one there I really wanted to talk to. “
I watch dusk take over the yard,
shadows grow where once her
rose bush had consumed the fence,
intertwining with the chain.
Inside, memories collect like dust
in the empty rooms.
Colored pencils rest in a coffee can
next to the easel. I can still trace
the lines where we used
them on the wall. Admonished,
more for using the good pencils
than for the wall.
A hand written recipe book,
pantry essentials listed on
the back cover, each page
a link to a meal, a holiday,
There is an empty place
on the mantelpiece. We
were forgiven for breaking
her mother’s vase, but it
was never replaced.
Full dark envelops the house
as I leave, returning it to the
realm of its ghosts.