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Original Sampler
Enter blue fog
tiptoes through echo
reborn with dawn.
That’s probably what I’d whisper to each and all of them if ever they’d gathered for a reunion other than Ross’ passing. Now, my skin almost matches the peeling red wood of the ancient glider that overlooks the in-ground swimming pool in the backyard whose had a face-lift, ironically. The pool was totally redone last summer, three years following the main swimmer’s demise.
My bones creak mostly when ghosts return to haunt or taunt memories come alive for the aging survivor. Now, only one resides in my shell, alone on earth; without a doubt, she’s lonely too, until parts of her screaming progeny return to parade themselves in rare visitations or none, excluding Rose, of course, Ross, Sr.’s first namesake.
I discovered “Original Sampler” in a shoebox underneath the shiny ornaments no longer used because Ross Jr. bought a miniature artificial tree that first sad Christmas without father.
The home is deep grave of memories,
more suited for portable brain’s
compartmentalized pockets
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