Whispers From An Open Door

I am a Son of Wealthy Folk, or so I’ve oft been told.
I led a spoiled childhood, and still I’m spoiled-old.
I left my home for coin and fame, and lived the life I’ve led.
I honored my old family-name, ‘till white hair graced my head.
And now I reminisce, to find a memory in here,
of some old time when smiles once graced the face behind my beard.

But itemizing memories leads only to lament,
if one did less with life than one originally had meant.
So let me take this time to start revisiting the past.
You must forgive this poor old fart – my mind is fading fast.

So many times are shadows and so many thoughts are shades.
So many sounds are whispers and so many colors gray.

The chandelier in gold and glass,
Above the entry hall.
It hung from heaven, miles away
To one just doorknob-tall.
(I was not there when fire came. I didn’t see it fall.)

The duck pond by the garden gate,
Without a duck in sight,
Where lizards, toads, and fireflies
Would gather every night.
(I was not there to see it dry between the drought and blight.)

The scuffling sound of feet to scale
With doll-sized little me
That flitted 'cross the wooden boards
In search of Granmommie.
(I was not there when curtains closed, at good-age ninety-three.)

The warming love of Mother’s hand
And Father’s gentle smile.
He didn’t like my mother much,
But hugged me once-a-while.
(I was not there to sign when all the paperwork was filed.)

The grown-ups talking, shouting, each one
Thinking I can’t hear.
“We’re losing him.” “He’s gone now.”
“Doctor, nurses, get in here!”
(I am not there when Grandson comes to shed a mourning tear.)

A blinding light none else can see.
A windy, whistling roar.
A warm and gentle handshake.
Whispers from an open door.
(I’m there, and I remember things I never knew before.)