I sit at the table.

I moved it in front of the window in my room. I am alone.

Again. Still, still.

My tree stands firmly rooted on the other side of the glass. Usually it breathes life into me, but today it just stares blankly at me.

The house is quiet, even dark, for a summer afternoon. I am a shadow of the house, or maybe, it is a shadow of me. Either way, we are both large, empty and dark. Abandoned.

Even the vent is now silent from pushing air through this old house’s lungs. I can almost hear the beat of my heart, if indeed I have one at all. 

I used to be the heart of this house, when it was a home. Five children kept this house alive and entertained. Now, it is just me. I fear I am not very entertaining.

My soul tries to pump life into me but my mind will have none of that. My heart is lost at this point, not knowing what to do next.

The angels are silent. Spirit is silent.

Lastly, I fear, even my pen is now silent.


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