In the Attic

Terse. Journal/March 2023

The winter earth here, too hard to shovel, sends corpses like mine to be placed in the attic, like all the other unused things. The fly buzzes above me. I can hear it, but cannot move my arms to swat it away. And I can smell the cold space- like apples. Now I too am an old, cold apple. In such a short time, I have turned from being one of the people making footsteps along hardwood downstairs to this frozen, yet still sensing, dead thing. I am stuck here like this, separated from my daughter whose birth put me here.