Cellar Door

byWillow Rain©

Dust motes filter,
through a golden halo of late winter sun.
I sit on the bottom step with the smells of my childhood,
spring flowers on the wallpaper have faded into smears.
I trace the empty circles
that are the only thing remaining
where jars of tomatoes used to go.

Seated in the arch of the doorway,
the coldest place in the house
somewhere between what is now and what is remembered,
I try and reconcile
with my reluctant past,
but she will have none of it.

Bare feet on the packed earth floor
part of me will never leave this house.
She will linger.
I will haunt this place.
My favorite yellow dress hitched up about her thighs
she’ll wait here forever,
dreaming of the boy she didn’t marry
and the day he asked her
standing in the cellar door.

When I told him no,
she abandoned me
and forever left the shell of my chest, in the shape of my heart.

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