These were her walls, corners, door ways. They built it from the ground up, detail upon detail. I wish these walls could talk and tell me what she baked for dinner, or what she scrubbed her floors with, the sound her feet made as she walked her floors. Her floral print wall paper with it's pale blues and dusty roses, her powder blue carpets and dark cabinets, they were stylish. What must she think, this women whose dream home has been my house, of my daydreams of the changes I'd render if it were mine? Just like that we are dated, out of style. It's colloquial but it's truth, time marches on, slowly steadily never wavering. And as we lie silent in our graves others walk our paths, they take our steps, turn our corners and pass through our door ways. I'll never know her but she has been my reminder this life, my life, is but dust, a vapor in the wind.
Flowers from her yard-Words stitched eight months ago when I first moved into her house.
528. for her flowers
529. for her house my home for eight months
530. for a new home (i moved)
531. for april 4th a day with all the birthdays
532. for the reminder to re-member the power of thanks