It sits on the sill, behind rain-spattered panes overlooking the lovely street. Beyond lies the long lawn and shedding autumnal tree. Loose leaves stir on a iron cold pavement as another mindless commuter passes the vulnerable open gates; a drippy oil patch the only testimony to a old micra, the gravel path all welcome crunch suppressing. The brass letterbox remains firmly shot – unused, closed, uninterested. Beneath grows a small mountain of post daily; pained words in limbo, all alive at departure, their breath held tight.
From the kitchen the fridge hums, shakes and rattles to a stall and a cold still. A singing striplight witnesses; lambent cold in the morose dark proving occupancy, numb beacon of emptiness and a rest to seen demand – once a hitcher to busy necessity now growing into an inanimate forever. A layer of dust settles lazily on the countertop, a gentle death to the heart of the house.
From without, a winged bird roars east over 3 miles high, breathy strings pouring at monumental puffy length, but its sound misses every ear. On it goes without a turn or pause, beyond to a clearer sky, bound to return another cargo filled.
On the starless tarmac lies a minute cotton thread, submerged within a lonely puddle. Shuffed from a cloth that wrapped a coffin, it is the only remnant to the heartbreaking solemnity of inescapable ceremony.
It sits, therefore, on the window's painted sill forgotten, the marker of sudden news and of relatives calling and of the pitying neighbours' hushed Staying at her sister's. Beside tilts a dim photo of a beachside three – a holy family: two gone.
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