These Hazy Days

The Blinds Still Cast Stripes

The living room is cold,
  but still achingly familiar.
    The people in the paintings
        still love to hear you play.
  The parents who you held close
still smile under parasols
in old pictures.

The dog still remembers
  the sound of your voice
    and moves to greet you,
       slower than stone.

               The rugs hug every stain.
       The kitchen lamp's manila shade
is still crooked as before.
      The clay figurines
             crack under the weight
                   of many empty, sunlit years.

The bathroom still echoes when you cry.
The tile still reveals new patterns
when you tilt your head to the side.

It still stings to drag your fingers
across the ribs of heating vents.

The blinds still cast stripes
on the walls, over the
quiet furniture, over
the watercolor June lilies.

It still hurts to feel your feet
on the hardwood floor. Here,
it still hurts to even breathe.