Night with her quietness, blossoms old memories.
Nothings as lonesome,as a house that holds no family.
Each room holds memories of pictures forming days,of way back then.
Sitting in the dark,remembering the souls this house once cradled.
You can hear voices at the table,cries in the dark
With every squeak in the floor,a new memory is birthed.
The many shoe sizes at the door are gone.
There's no unmade beds or dirty dishes.
The lid is on the peanut-butter and jelly jar.
Blessed is the night,she seems to own the sleepless ones.
You sit in darkness,she tells her stories, of way back then.