So Many Stories

The house, once so pleased
with the love lingering in corners,
laughter in the nursery,
the big, bubbling babbling of babes,
and
parents doing what they do after "I do"
is now lugubrious.
Sorrow hides in its cobwebs
while the paint of pain cracks
and creaks in the eaves.
The walls wither while awaiting wet tears,
silent shame, and
Exhaustion!
Exhaustion!
Exhaustion!
The exhaustion of expectations embryonic;
parents depleted of post-pollination dreams,
doors crying and cringing when opened,
knowing emptiness waits on both sides with
blank men,
erased women,
alone-born child.
Only the attic content,
full of box after box after box
of broken heart after broken heart
after broken lives.
Waiting for more boxes, still.

©Rebecca Pilcher Sissom