Sunday Dust Bunnies

Sunlight falls through the window, warming, caressing the air, turning and spinning the dust particles that catch and shine as they dance on the music of the silence of the room.

The smell of the room is beyond stale.  Maybe, ancient?  Not armpit, not an old shoe, not even bad breath.  Something latent.  Something that makes you shake our nose, hoping for cleaner.

Just beyond the sun sits an old chair from a decade long dead, with brocade of purple and red with just an ounce of yellow and gold, and strong wood lovingly lost of its color.

Full Sun on, is a love seat, that if it could talk could sing about the loves thrown and kissed there would make an old man blush.

Yet, hidden from the sun, carefully stacked and packed in every room, are stone dead volumes of books that spoke and sang at one time, but now just hold the floor in place.  Maybe, hold the Earth in place with their silence and presence.

In the Southeast corner of the room, lays the one painting, a Van Gogh, bought when he was still mad?  Bought when he was still unknown and lost?  Found by a young woman traveling through Europe when she rebelled against her Protestant father?

There are no pictures of the woman that I see on the title.  I have no songs, poems, or writings of her own. 1999 rent control, maybe.

Yet, the room has a presence of love, life, and death, and I do not know what to do with the treasures.

I cannot move.  I am not worthy of breathing the Dust Bunnies I see and smell here.

Love has loved.

But, Love left.

Only God is here now.

 

 

 

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