|From Lillie McFerrin Writes|
The house is quiet; still as the dusty bars of sunlight laying on the floor; as silent as the phone that doesn’t ring. In the drive sits a car, full to the windows with memories stuffed in boxes; memories that once filled the nooks and crannies of these empty rooms. Empty as the crib in the corner. The heels of my shoes echo down the hall to the door, ghosts of other hearts beating under this roof. I watch as the memory of my palm fades from the glass until there is nothing left of me here.