Death Looks Through a Window

Evening.

A sliding glass door.

In the home of my elderly parents.

Two Bohemian lamps,

intricately etched in gold.

She paid too much for them.

Two lamps inside.

Two lamps outside.

Reflecting multiple worlds,

multiple possibilities

to the observant eye.

The rocking chair inside,

hard and uninviting.

The rocking chair outside,

where the grim watcher

sits, silently waiting.

Inside,

A woman chats brightly

with her elderly father,

her brother snoring

on the couch

passed down through the years.

Outside,

shadows play

across the wooden fence.

Not much to see,

but the mystery.

The sliding glass door

does not open.

Things fall apart;

as do people.

It’s hard to keep up,

in the home of my parents.

Pixabay: StillWorksImagery