The Task

The old screen door still welcomes me, a familiar song I've heard before.. But oddly now, it's out of tune, a strange new wail of some despair After this,...who'll pass this way? Will they use the rug and wipe their feet, erase away the grime or sleet? Will they even care? I feel my pulse and lungs collide, then take a breath and step inside She had lived alone, the last to go, one somber dawn, in the old brownstone. Without a hint her time was near Then, silently, without fanfare, death tiptoed in and closed the door, beyond the path that brought her here I've been asked to come, to clear the house To organize, and set it right… But it all seems wrong…. To trespass on the throne of life that was softly lived, behind a gate where thirsty roses bloom and wait… I hesitate…. to disturb the lace on drop-leaf tables… Disgrace the quiet of the gloom To open drawers, snoop and sort, ….a pruning, of the good, the used, from worn and torn My hands are able, but my heart declines.. what isn’t mine, to toss, to find, to mark, and label… Echoes of an old straw broom sweep years away from every room The dust motes in the window light are sparks that light each memory… Soft treadle sounds from sewing hems, remembered by the August wind, are rattling windows, shaking blooms, in the waning afternoon There are questions that I would like to ask I can’t recall just what they were No matter now….with no one here I must keep focused on my task… Keep sorting, tagging, tossing, clearing… So strange the fact, how odd it seems. Tucked away, and gently wrapped, her china cup, her favorite one, so lovely in the hand could last beyond the grave, intact Long shadows close the afternoon. A letting go, a fading sun My task is done. I'll keep the cup, and hold it close It's a witness to a world unknown Some fragile things are never gone