she would miss her children if she ever admitted they were gone.
dusting shelves still full of trophies placing fresh daisies on her daughter’s bedside table. it’s hard to tell how long the girl has been gone the cut flowers uncomfortably alive with mom’s weekly replacements. this bouquet is one hundred fifty six.
her dead son’s shoes still peek from under the bed by his football and box of cards which he kept marking his birthdays, his loves and his losts. her only brush with reality comes with floor hugging sobs reading historic Hallmark memories returning each one exactly as she found them.
the dressers are full of left behind clothes neatly and compulsively folded. the kids never leave if you never stop taking care of them