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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #1308893
We all know the day will come, we hope it will be gentle and quick.
Every year on the holidays,
one house stood out from the rest.
An exquisitely decorated Victorian,
Rose and Ed won an award for the best.

Last year elegant lights graced a rooftop.
Ed remembers joy.
He and Rose laughing out loud.
Carolers on the doorstep, wrapping each toy.

Today falls virgin snow,
crystal sparkles pack
on rose bushes and once soft lawn.
Ed's face shines with fresh tear tracks.

The lovely house seems to mourn,
dark and solemn, sadly in despair.
No more sugar or gingerbread cookie smells.
No gifts or tree bought with care.

Ed presses his nose to the window.
Outside lays a winter wonderland.
Children play with shiny new sleds and bikes.
He weeps from the hole inside himself.

People had rung the doorbell.
He remains glued to her chair.
Telephone rings but no one answers.
If only he truly cared.

When his lady Rose took her last breath,
something broke, the beginning of an end.
He covered the wound with memories,
no repair shop could possibly mend.

The winter days and nights went by,
he lost track of time.
His eyesight went, legs would not move.
Then Rose came to to his side.

She took the shrunken cold hand,
kissed it with warm honeyed lips.
His new bride whispered,
"Darling, it's warm on the other side."

The neighbors called the police.
They opened a heartbroken house.
Now in a cold lair for ghosts,
lay a perfect red rose in a chair.

By Kathie Stehr
Edited Jan. 5, 2012
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