By Kerry Ann Wiley

Every house has its familiar sounds: footsteps in the hallway, a chair moving across the floor. Some are so familiar that we notice only when they stop.
The Shadows Grew Tall
There were questions unanswered
And names called down the hall;
A voice from the kitchen
Remembered them all.
The clock missed a minute.
The shadows grew tall.
A voice from the kitchen
Still traveled the hall.
There’s a noise in the hallway,
A bump and a creak.
The floorboards remember
What no one will speak.
There’s a mark on the wall
Where a picture once stayed,
A pale little square
That the sunlight betrayed.
A scratch on the table,
A dent in the chair,
And nobody remembers
How either got there.
The clock missed a minute.
The shadows grew tall.
A voice from the kitchen
Still traveled the hall.
Now the floorboards still grumble,
The walls bear the stain,
And the picture’s pale outline
Is all that remains.
The clock missed a minute.
The shadows grew tall.
The voice from the kitchen
No longer crossed the hall.
The chairs sit undisturbed, though the floorboards still creak in the hallway, answering footsteps no longer heard.
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