the home
where his daughters were raised,
where he and his deceased
wife lived for sixty odd years,
he lingers on each floor,
as they remove
the clutter, priceless clutter.
boxes arrive and boxes
leave.
the attic has never been more
clean.
the yard he's kneeled on
religiously is in full bloom.
he says nothing
as he stands at each
window peering out.
seeing his life go by, hearing
the voices
of those he loved,
the footsteps
of them in the other room.
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