The mornings hang here, until..
I peek out of the window and
hurry out of the house for the next door..

Determined to find an answer..
I gently turn the key and
push myself into the hallway..

Moving past discolored leaves and curtains..
I pass them, a lot of them,
the dusty picture frames..

The only doctor among her girl friends..
I see Rosemary, my mother,
Must be 1954, she was never exactly sure..

Here, inside the empty bedroom..
I look for indications of his existence or
is it the lingering thoughts of childhood..

Next to the island in the kitchen..
I see Charles hunched over the chair,
the old newspapers gathered chest high on the table..

He smiles as if to make Rosemary proud..
I am sure he is alive,
his stomach breathing and our dilated eyes have met..

He dunks his tea with a big biscuit..
I see a trail of crumbs,
one of many, around the girth..

Pulling back his dirty green sweater..
I run fingers through his hair and
over his shoulders..

Tell Carolyn to come visit me, he begs..
I will be back – I tell him.
Two minutes is all I have for him today..

Ironical..
I would have just these two minutes
from him while growing up..

Somehow, the morning still hangs..
I feel something doesn’t feel liberating
and it must be his will to live..

But..
I, Carolyn, will let another day pass
and then peek out of the window..

Originally composed on: 02/06/2014 6:27pm

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