Broken cobblestone lined with wooden posts
lanterns hanging down, flames flickering
through the rolling hills and overgrown foliage
A larger house stands defiant against
the black nothingness threatening to swallow it.
Leaves rustle with animal footsteps
and leap like frogs through gusts of wind
the scraping sound, mixing with the voice of an owl—a medley of nature.
A ladder dangling down, leads to warped wood with
shedding skin, a name tag precariously clipped on
A ripped tire lay by a sweet, smelling pond, greenish
and filled with soupy mud and grass, a rope jaggedly cut,
sways back and forth in memory.
Sweet child, sweet child
When will you return
Perhaps,
the soft, overturned dirt
that smoothly mounded
like a fresh grave
will tell all
The bones are inconclusive
Is it you
The child
forever memorialized
on the milk cartons
in the abandoned
grocery store
Sweet child, sweet child
Where did you go?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I used to stay up until 3 and 4 in the morning reading or watching tv. That all stopped after the night that I heard, crystal clear, a young boy say “Hello” from the dark direction of my doorway. I got goosebumps all over and felt my heartbeat in my throat.