My Racoons

Racoons, Racoons, bouncing everywhere! Ceiling to floor and door to door. Down the rain pipe, then back up. Scuttering around seeking food; a comfortable place to sleep. When night creeps up my sliding door, lights out for the night; I can trust in their pitter-pat to keep me brave. Children go home, husbands die. The racoons return, little soldiers, day and night. Their rambunctious rattling ease the missing footsteps on the stairs; where ghosts still range from time to time, unreliable at best. The racoons, seven at last count, don’t mind the frightening sight of me without my teeth or hair. They live and play above my head; just grateful for a warm insulated corner in which to rest. As others speak of their grandkids, I speak of my racoons. But my racoons are more loyal; they never leave; they never cry. Their character lays in their unaltering, steadfast presence. It seems such a small thing, yet it’s everything when your old and alone. Kids grown No one coming home A silent telephone They expect nothing from me Giving me the greatest comfort there is, the muffled sound of little feet across the ceiling.