White walls that are only blanketed by
emptiness.
Just three frames in a row.
All on the same wall, leaving the others bare.
Pictures of bright flowers fill the three frames,
as if the bright feeling can be transferred from frame
to people.
Now there were rows of chairs, filled with
stiffness;
never broken in.
The room is bombarded by the sound of news reporters on
the television screen.
But the gaunt faces don’t pay any attention to the reporter.
They’re too busy staring off into each other’s eyes
Those eyes have been here for hours
awaiting of what will happen to their loved one.
This isn’t supposed to happen now
This isn’t the time to leave
This isn’t the age to leave your family
Not here
Not yet
Three generations fill
the seats in the room.
An elder woman with her daughters and their children.
To the side of the elder woman is her sister
The elder woman has a faint whip of white hair;
the other has a gradual swirl of brow to silver.
The white haired one thinks,
“Will I ever see him again?”
“Will I ever kiss him again?”
For a moment, the silvery brown haired woman spoke,
“Remember when mommy used to give us lip if we complained about her cooking?”
For a moment her face lifts to a smile,
as they hold hands, the two women.
Both sisters.
Both trying to make the best out of a bad situation.
Poetry
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