Shrouded

She gently caressed the withered rose in the vase sitting on the drop leaf table with the crocheted doily Grandma made. She sighed as the last petal slid to the table now shrouded in dust. On the other side of the room stands a silent Grandfather clock, the brass arms twined in cobwebs. She doesn’t miss the clanging of the clock; it used to wake her up when she slept over as a child. She left Grandpa’s old shirt with the tattered collar and worn sleeves draped on the kitchen chair just like it was every night after he came home from work. On the floor, two small dishes sit yellowed with age where Rhubarb used to feast at night now surrounded with mouse turds.  She misses Rhubarb, he kept the mice at bay in this beautiful old house, but she’s the only one left now, and she can’t bring herself to move a thing, it’s easier to live like a ghost rattling around among the forget me not mementos than it is to live without them. 

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