Dust,
Floating aimless in sepia window sunlight,
So soft, so small,
The red hummingbird feeder just behind the white framed glass.

Silence, aching above hard wood floors,
Hovering and heavy,
Between the cracks of old doors and creaky stairs...
Looming on gentle blue kitchen walls.

One might think,
With an hour gone by,
Life might begin to stir...
Not where death has touched.

Seemingly perpetual,
Incurable and unmoving,
For death brings with it the melancholy and indescribable,
Silence.

Still, silence in yesterday's stale coffee pot,
Silence in the hollow Miss Goose cookie jar,
Silence surrounding the dying cactus plant on the shelf above the sink,
Still, so very still, silence under the peeling wall paper...

Where has Happiness gone?
Did Age smother her vibrancy,
Has Truth broken her simple bliss,
Or does all good truly come to an end?

None of these questions have the answers.
Answers, raw,
Lie in Time, who so swiftly passed in quiet,
Until her cry.

A wail swelling with such misery,
Only a mother could muster such despair.
Is there greater sadness than a mother's?
No mother should lose her son to himself.

Where is Consideration? Sensitivity? Love?
No mother should come to visit her son,
Only to find scribbled, desperate handwriting,
A tear stained, four folded note.