10 years ago today


The house is silent.

He who told the stories is gone.

Memories gather. On every surface, in every corner.

Filling bowls, spilling off tables and out of cupboards.

They are fragile as cobwebs,

And as solid as stone.

Others come, turn the memories in their hands.

Fill their pockets, let them play between their fingers.

They speak the stories, and old becomes new.

Leave a Reply