Center Stage

A house stands empty
Waiting to be filled by sounds
New memories made

A trumpet blasts from the attic. Sitting in the foyer, I know what sorrow sounds like. If this were a play, Mark and I would be the new, young couple who sit with our lap tops oblivious to the sounds of the past echoing from the other rooms. Stage left, grown children who once occupied the home sift through closets extracting memories of mama’s favorite dinner dress, her slips and nightdresses. A brother’s favorite stuffed dog and books worn from several readings sit high and dusty on shelves. Memories continue to flow . . . Papa’s hats he wore on Sundays, sister’s black and white photos from her college course, and the distant echoes of a house warmed by music, laughter, and wood burning in the brick fireplace. Stage right, children practice their instruments for the holiday concert and a little girl blows with all her might on a brass trumpet. Center stage, Mark and I check the thermostat and sit in silence surfing the Net while a family says goodbye to their past.