Cobwebs

I was so sure back then, just as I am sure now.

I walk to the door, the last place I recall, and the first place I know to look.

Something is different – odd.

It’s the smell. Musty. The wood is old and weathered. The paint flakes in the wind as the chips stick to my plaid shirt. I feel the boards creak under my boots, for they are as tired as my weary feet.

The door is stiff, but unlocked.

The golden coin that hangs in the sky is fast falling into a distant slot, and its sheen spills into the empty room. Cobwebs dangle above a cracked vase in the corner, and the light flows over dust grown thick in neglect.

I will keep you hale and hearty aloft in memory. In such fondness you will stay, for the reality will be too painful. Up there it’s the first day, every day.

For there is the last place you remember me.