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.

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