Sentimentality

Little soft feet and a swish of blue dress
drift through the rooms like a breeze;
old rooms, cold rooms, full of dusty sunlight
and nostalgic memories.

The entryway, with its sepia walls,
the place where she saw him last.
There in the doorway, with pain in his eyes—
but she'd left all that in the past.

You said goodbye, you shut him out,
she thinks as she walks down the hall.
Feet brush wood floors that are worn down to velvet.
Fingertips kiss the wall.

She enters the kitchen on cloud-like toes.
She gazes around the room.
She turns about slowly, arms spread apart,
breathing in culinary perfume.

Her eyes alight on his old china cups,
a gem from the past she'd forgot.
They're filled with tea and memory,
bittersweet and steaming hot.
She smiles.
She moves on.

Now the parlor, a garden of chintz,
an island of warm cerise.
It smells like the summers of bygone years.
It feels like stagnated peace.

And thrust in the corner is the derelict piano
with its rows of chipped ivory keys.
Remember when he used to sit here and play
with nonchalant expertise?

Remember those blustery, cold winter nights?
Remember the fires, golden and bright?
Remember the piano as it sang its sweet song?
Remember his smile as he sang along?
Remember?
Remember?
Remember?

But now that's all an ethereal echo;
now the old house is dead.
Silently, she turns away.
Silently, tears are shed. 

She wipes them away with the back of her hand
and sinks down into a chair.
She listens so hard, but the piano is silent.
Because there's nobody there.

The End

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