I breathed out, the air tickling my lips as it brushed past, unsuspecting of what was taking place. I would remember this moment, this decision, for the rest of my life. This moment in which time seemed to stand still and watch as an onlooker, curious as to what would come.

I looked once more through the wide-open Victorian doors and the ornate entryway. The blue floral wallpaper gave an air of sadness as it watched me, its lifelong friend, exit the home for the last time. At 92 I was too old and frail to be this home's companion any longer. I would start a new chapter of life with my daughter. Thankfully, she does not live more than an hour drive from my lovely Victorian home in the northern part of Maine, but the sorrow of losing my home tore through me with great strength. I raised my two babies in this home and enjoyed many years with the most wonderful man. I had to say goodbye to that man, my husband, about four years past. I would now lose my home.

Modern folk do not appreciate the power of understanding one's past, or even the beauty of good craftsmanship. All things fast and disposable are what make the world go around now. There are few things that stay the same. There are few things that cause true joy, and instead a few fickle moments of happiness soon swept away by the busy schedule of life. What kind of life would that be? Was that to be the kind of life I must have now that I would live with my daughter?

Fear crept into my mind, intertwining with the sorrow of the event. A force gripped at my throat and I fought back the tears which threatened to present themselves. What good would that do me now? This was to be my new life. I could accept it with grace and dignity, leaning heavily on God to keep me as he always had, or I could become a permanent part of the past.

I took a strong, deliberate step backward and closed the heavy green wooden doors. I took another step back, relishing in the beauty of the home I had enjoyed for most of my lifetime.

"Goodbye old friend." I whispered lightly, as a tear rolled down one cheek.

I lifted my chin, took another step back, then turned and strode slowly, but confidently to my daughter's new black Buick. I wiped the single tear away before carefully lowering myself onto the soft passenger seat. I turned a smiling face to my daughter who pressed the accelerator and roared away as if the past had never even happened.

You do not see it, the way you look.

You are a masterpiece, created

in the image of He who sees all.

Your eyes, blue, and as vast as the sea.

Your smile chases all fears from the world.

Your hair is as dark mahogany,

with thick waves that shine in the sunlight.

Your shoulders are strong and supportive.

Your hands, warm and their touch inviting.

How can you not see what others see?

You do not hear it, the way you sound,

Your laugh, as though music to the ear,

and quick wit enthralling those around.

Your song complete, rich, and exquisite.

Your characters and roles engaging,

the cause of many a person’s laughter.

You uplift with every word, shining

light from the very depths of your voice.

Why can you not hear what others hear?

You do not know it, the way you are.

You love God, striving to follow Him.

One cannot stay blue in your presence,

for one look in your eyes creates a

world full of laughter and love, not real.

Your talents shine around you like stars

on that dimly lit stage, and in life.

You are who you are, God’s handiwork,

at its best, a design so perfect.

Why can you not see the way you are?

When I was young, the palace was tall, strong.

It afforded protection and familiarity.

I could work my way through the palace,

finding information at my leisure to recall.

When I was young, I was real. Reality was real.

It could be sought after and found with ease.

Reality was tangible and never elusive.

I could take hold of it whenever I wished.

Now, as I study that sinister palace, I know

not where to enter. Nothing looks right

the shadows long and mystifying. The

ghastly doors like an abyss to the unknown.  

Once inside, it’s as if a jokester were having

a laugh. As though he rearranged

the halls and corridors from what was known.

Why can’t I find the old familiar things?

Reality is now an elusive bird, quite exotic,

and if found, celebrated with much joy!

How rare an occasion indeed, to remember

who I am, who I once was—and who you are.

Smoke rises above the crumbling debris,

life drifting away in the black abyss.

A mind ravaged by the ill fire.

The body, it will follow.

It seemed just yesterday,

that hope was alive.

Hope in life.

No more.

What now?

Phoenix or dove?

Will you surge, alive?

Or lay and die in the dust?

Will you arise from the ash?

Will you, your mind come alive?

Will you overcome this fear of stigma,

of life, of pain, and arise from the debris?

America. Where are you?

Rot. Decay spreading like a necrotizing disease.

Lies. Deceit running as a hyena throughout the mire.

Hate. Anti-semitism spewing forth like vomit from the ill.

Suffocation.Patriots buried alive in the coffin of liberalism.

Corrosive. Love burned alive by the hate of babies and fetuses.

Love. Where are you?

People. Where are you?

America. Where are you?