The Shelving Unit and Us
I ask my mother where are all the books,
And she points to a pile of boxes.
The shelving unit where they once rested,
Stands tall and lonely against the wall.
If I was younger, and father were alive,
They would pull out a book and show me
New words. They’d tell me a story,
As they pass the pages gently.
But father is not here anymore,
And I’m still young, but not as young as then.
I want to ask mother where are we going,
But she stands there, too silent, looking
At the boxes. I wonder if the books too
Can feel our sorrow.
I stare at the empty shelving unit,
Waiting for the right time to hold her hand.