She approached the door to the house with timidity.
Crossing the threshold into a dimly lit room, only small
of light spilled across the floor from the dusty window pane
on her left.
She placed one foot carefully in front of the other
making her way down the long and n a r r o w hallway.
Blue china plates hung on
of the hall, feeling the deep pain of never being used.
She accidentally picked one up and threw
it to the rough, wooden floorboards,
The dish shattered. Unrecognizable.
The mangy hound of guilt trampled over the shards, sat at her feet,
and breathed his hot breath on her ankles.
She wore her longing draped around her neck in the form of a knit scarf
as she swept up the broken pieces.
She reassembled them with scotch tape and it looked good
when you weren’t looking.
She wiped the blood from her hands with
a handkerchief her mother embroidered for her.
The pink lettering remained unfinished.
She leashed up the mangy hound and turned to leave.
As she made her way out the door, she was blinded by the hot sun,
her eyes refocused and she was lying in bed.