Gone

All alone, she sat waiting

A ghost looking for something,

Something that wasn’t there. Something

In the tiny house next to the willow tree.

 

She couldn’t remember,

No, she wouldn’t remember

The life she had

In the tiny house next to the willow tree.

 

All those years, the laughter, the joy

The music she played, the happiness she created

The peace.

She couldn’t remember that.

The birds flying high above,

The squirrels chasing each other,

The bees harvesting sweeter and sweeter honey.

The cat purring over her ball of yarn,

The mice scurrying along in the fields,

The butterflies floating about outside.

All those years, the laughter and joy.



There was a rocking chair,

One that she probably sat in while chatting heartily with a friend.

There was a tire swing,

One the children once spent hours in while yelling whose turn it was

There was the ivy, that crept up the rosy brick water well

There was the sun-faded yellow wall, with faint traces of a once brilliant floral pattern.

There was the orange wall, with its once blinding white polka dots now dull with age

There was the blue wall, with the peeling green strip that once added a touch of life to the room.

There was the cherry red wall, with its shiny fresh paint now a bland shade of pale pink.

 

No, she wouldn’t remember that life, couldn’t she.

That life was beyond her now.

Time had done what it was best a doing –

Eating away the old until it’s just

Gone.