Stoic wallpaper stared back.
Pink and yellow flowers vying for attention,
their green stems intricately woven together
with silver threads I hadn't noticed before.
Life pumps.
Tik-tok clock documenting every beat.

****
We were penned. Pensive.
Waiting, wishing, wanting something to happen.
Praying it wouldn’t. Knowing it would.
Time was a sepia presence
neither moving nor standing still.
In moments of quiet respite I sat on the steps
of our wood-weary porch listening
to Grandpa’s rocker creaking empty
in all its tattered glory, groaning
with the indifferent breeze.
No one else ever sat there.
Sullen trees air-mumbled fragments
of childhood escapades, fishing forays,
camping coups and catastrophes.
Cousins and kin wandered in and out aimlessly.
Bent heads, spent talk but for muted murmurings
drifting through doorways on the faint aroma
of home-made broth and bread.
The sky, vacant white, hung low like a notice board
waiting for words from God or someone.
Aunt Clara periodically flourished the sign
of the cross asking the Virgin Mary
for mercy and other bestowals.
I watched a lone bee hovering,
busily fulfilling its destiny, unawares
it would soon be dead.
I envied its unknowing.

****

Grandpa lay. A thin, grey shade of the past.
Yesterday eyes. Fixed. Broken.
Serenity phased in on the last breath.
According to Aunt Clara,
butterflies join wings with angels
and handle everything now.
The beginning ends when end begins.
Time turns onward. Ever onward
and bees fly to wherever they need to be.