out of reach

her sofa,
wrapped tightly in a plastic
sheet,
the velvet rope,
the keepsakes
on the mantle, a clock
without a tick,
a vase, an oil portrait
of someone
who looked almost
like her, everything
worth breaking, just inches
out of reach.
no fun to wander
her house.
the borders closed
from step to door,
no where to roam.
to stamp our feet,
or throw a ball,
and the tea, the stale
cookies,
her proper way of talking.
all of it,
to us children,
a deathly bore.