And so the stories stopped,
dried up on her lips and fell away.
Now there is only a quietness
that has drifted over the place.
Those old characters continue
to stare out from their portraits,
but now their names aren't spoken
out loud with pointed fingers
or raised eye brows or a fist
in the palm of her life.
She never wrote them down,
those dramas and set pieces.
So now they only linger
like fragile jewels on her chain,
hanging on the walls of her home,
in her father's crafted frames.
The names and details escape,
filtered from the passageways
of my heart. And so her stories
go with her, out of the door,
whistling down the alleys she walked
and stirring up the autumn leaves.
All I remember is that she told them
and retold them just the same.
© Andrew Frolish