Finn Wagner - September 26, 2023
Photo - Finn Wagner
I lie with my feet on the couch;
my back to the lifeless frame
holding
what of you I have left.
Before me rests my newest task–
infinite pieces,
none fitting. I wonder:
Where do I begin a puzzle
if a corner is missing?
The pieces sit unbothered,
for they have never touched you;
But they will lie scattered, untouched
until my heart begins to mend.
Your urn is kept pristine
on a dusty mantle.
You watch your children
laugh and cry and play.
A death re-lived each time they pass.
In the corner, your favorite record spins–
scratching from overuse.
Your voice chases cars
and departs far too soon.
Your ticking hands
move in the cadence of my
tapping foot; circling a face,
day by day–
still dictating my routine.
Your hardcover books– no use
but to collect dust.
Their stories unheard because
yours was cut short.
I grab my journal,
as the Aspen-spiced candle flickers.
For hours I sit– pondering,
searching for answers,
but only questions flood the gates.
The thoughts pour from my mind,
smothering my candle,
condensating on my paper.
They ask:
If a house becomes
a home with family,
then what becomes
of a family without a home?
But only the Mother of time will tell–
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