windows

I'm surprised that it didn't spread like a delicate plague.

Those little black spots of mold that took hold underneath the girly floral patterned wallpaper. They clustered there overtime growing larger and darker and more ominous. Pretty underneath the faded blue rose florals. Ominous where the plastered paper peeled back on itself. It didn't leave the room. The little dolls with the wobbly eyes and tattered handmade dresses, dusty despite all the water jugs didn't leave either.

I'm surprised at at that.

Surprised that the stories of rooms filled to the brim, the tiny but deliberate carved and carpeted paths have only mustered a shushed whisper maybe over coffee at the local Tim Horton's. Of a graveyard for antiques, had they once been living would have filled a city. Now, just gathered in little groups of friends, waiting. Something inside the walls of the yard and brittle slatted house, that keeps the secrets from leaving. It's as if a tiny wind blows from all sides, gently keeping all those possessions inside the gate and possibly bringing more with them.

Bringing another pile of window frames, another row of bottles. Stack up the pots. We'll fill them with food one day. Chairs piled so thick it was like walking into a wooden cobweb. A giant spider sitting in the corner waiting for it's next meal is just an old dresser with the drawers open like giant hands. The gentle prairie wind blows. Bringing with it the sorrows and losses from the times of war. From the times when it was painful to loose something so much that you held on tight to it all. Just put it over there. We'll make use of it one day. Someone will need it.

The wind with its secrets keeps all the dolls from speaking. They sit staring at the little tiny black spots forming, envying the books and magazines carefully in bags.



windows, originally uploaded by onecreativesource.