Siobhan Connally

I could give you the address, but I don't want you to show up on my doorstep.

I don't want you poking through the closets or rifling the drawers. Or perhaps it's the mess I don't want you to see.

Not that you'd find anything of value ... or peril. The old dog would give you a sniff, or a lick, if she heard you on the stairs. Nothing more. She doesn't see well anymore. She never smelled good.

You don't need perfect vision to take the random, unfocused thoughts rattling around this old house.

Old ghosts have moved on, leaving space for anticipation. We could slow down but we trudge ahead in optimism tinged with a niggling sense of dread. Looking but not always seeing.

Not yet relics.