Books, piled on tables,
On the floor,
In a bookcase.
Dogeared, some open, most closed.
Pictures ring the walls of the house.
Children: older, younger, and younger still.
Who are they, why are they here?
The pictures are part of the houses soul,
its essence.
Pictures hung with magnets on
the refrigerator door: more children,
Slips of paper, notes,
little pieces of nothing
stuck on a door.
Pictures of a man next to two women.
The women are not the same.
The man is me, years apart.
Who are the women?
What stories and tales do those pictures tell?
This is what life is about:
Little pieces of nothing.