The Last One

The Last One
Perched on this cliff a house of sticks and bricks a home, the wind through every slat for days and days that do not end. The soundless sound of an empty house where the laughter is gone out on the wind that drags relentlessly at the soul, drags at the spirit, sucking all out to sea. The tears have dried up and the bitter words have washed away and the howling wind is the only sound. Laying in shroud, the body, the last body of this house, her tiny heart not yet grown, and he left when her last breath left her, he cried he beat his chest and he packed his things and he left, he loved that tiny child, loved her silver laughter, loved her wide eyes, loved her black curls and when she departed his heart went too, following her last breath across the cliffs with the wind that tears at the rocks and the house and whips the water into white froth waves. The laughter is all gone, the room is empty, in the cold ground, the chipped dirt, prepare the grave, a young man from the village came to lend a hand, “ma'am heard what happened and all wanted to make sure you were OK, can I be of any assistance, anything at all” and so he had chipped at the dirt chipped a hole in the ground and had lain the child in it and had removed his hat and said “I’m real sorry ma'am, sorry for your loss” he had stood there looking embarrassed had accepted the food had eaten in embarrassed silence and had left, “if there is anything I can do ma'am really anything at all I live down in the village” his words were caught by the wind and torn out to the sea torn out over the cliffs and he nodded his fair child's head and holding his hat in his hands had turned and walked away down the winding barren path, a scar in the earth made by generations of feet, tiny feet, big feet, in man’s boots and women's sandals, the bare feet of children, the gnarled feet of the old and each had hunched their shoulders and started up the hill to the tiny house standing up against the wind that torments the siding, tears at the shingles tears at the gray brick chimney. The wind has berated at this cliff for the generations I am the last, I watch as words escape out to sea, build a fire in the grate, put the kettle on the hook, stand in the wind, see the ships far out to sea in the churning frothing gray waters. Ashes and dust, the world crumbles in our midst as we stand by the wayside and watch.