C. J. Black.
The faded dog eared calendar on the wall told its own story.
The scribbled pencil notes on the outer column.
Some dates marked with a circle or an x.
In the corner of the room stood a wooden tea chest filled with treasures from times long past.
The old Singer sewing machine with a garment still attached, left unfinished, one wonders what became of the person who was operating it at that given time?
The sense of what might have been, I sit awhile contemplating the silence.
Listening intently for ghostly noises.
Picking my way gently through the lives of those departed I venture up the creaking stairs, make as little noise as possible I tell myself.
Impossible, as the rotting wood stair steps falls to the floor below, who might I be disturbing?
In the sunshine streaming through an uncovered window at the top of the stairs I thought, are my eyes playing tricks on me? Did I just see a form pass along the landing?
Sweaty palms grip the unstable bannister, I look back, and see the stairway behind me disintegrating.
Turning back, I pick my steps carefully as I descend, on reaching the last step I breathe a long sigh of relief.
Emerging out into the bright sunlight, I make myself a firm promise – next time have a really sound excuse when someone suggests that you invade the lives of those gone before you.
Allow the dead rest in peace.
C. J. Black©β
Monday, 12 May 2014