by RR Ewart
It is a terrible thing
To look at oneself in the mirror
And not recognize the person
Staring back at you.
But that is what happened to me.
I believed I would not change.
I thought I would look the same and might not
Even realize that anything was different,
But that was a foolish idea to cling too.
I died the way I came into the world,
Covered in blood.
I cannot tell you what happened to me,
Because I do not remember.
But I can see the room,
Dark, filled with a dim orange glow.
The walls looked dull and damp.
One of the windows was open,
It was warm that night,
And the soft white curtains shifted
Smoothly over the sill.
I once heard someone say
That a house that has seen death
Can never really be owned again,
Only borrowed from those who remain.
I never truly understood this sentiment
Until it happened to me.
I have shared my forever home with numerous people,
Families mostly,
With dogs, smiling children, and chocolate chip cookies.
I think that in my time spent reflecting,
On life,
Death,
And the altered reality I now occupy,
I understand what that someone meant.
Memories come and go,
They become fogged over by time
And by new memories taking up space,
But the memory of death sticks like a fossil
Permanently etched into the walls.
At first I searched;
Reading the walls for clues about my death.
I do not know how long I looked,
Time doesn’t have meaning anymore,
It clouds the mind like a foggy morning
That leaves frost around the windows.
Of course, I remember time,
Waking up to warm sun on my face,
And watching pink clouds fade into a velvety night.
I no longer worry about what happened,
How I ended up covering the rug in a pool of deep crimson blood.
There is nothing I can change,
Even if I found out about that night,
I would still be here,
Drifting through the house,
Watching new people move in and grow,
Not knowing that I once existed as they do.
Please, I ask you now,
Do not feel sorry for me,
Or shed a single tear.
I quite enjoy watching you live,
your children play.
I pretend that I am playing with them.
I imagine that I am a guest at your holiday dinners.
If you ever wish to call upon me,
You can call me The Lady in the Walls.
That is where I stay mostly,
Close to the walls.
I remember the walls.
The paint, furniture, sounds, and smells are always changing,
But the walls remember.
They remember me and
How I loved,
How I cried,
How I lived,
And how I died.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing, SNHU Student