June 29 2023

The dead wander here, my father their kin as he drags his distended body to the swell from across my line of sight. He labors the day away as he forfeits a trim to my mother's garden that has long since withered and dried. Everything she loved has gone and even the morning sighs.

On the tattered surface of my vintage dresser lay scattered portraits of ancestors demanding reverance. I pass them on my way to the bedside window; dwelling in that these names may repeat themselves, having purpose renewed. I consider the old and the new and who I am praying to.

Dust sheaths the curvatures between my toes, as barely skimming the carpeted overlay, my bare feet delay in their step; the floor still creeking, oak and vinyl in the late stages of dry rot - giving way to the weight of my father's cigar and pipe smoke settled towards the bottom.