A Holiday Home Weeps

Each year on the holidays,
one house stood out from the rest.
A tastefully decorated Victorian,
Rose and Ed won for the best.


Now Ed presses his nose to the window.
Outside lays a winter wonderland.
Children play with shiny new sleds.
He weeps; a deeply broken man.


Just last year he could remember joy.
Lights lined the rooftops.
Carolers on the doorstep, wrapping toys,
he and Rose laughing out loud.


The once lovely house seems to mourn,
dark and solemn, in despair.
No sugar cookie or pine needle smells.
No Christmas tree or gifts bought with care.


People keep ringing the door bell.
He now remains glued to her chair.
The telephone rings without end,
if only he could make himself care.


Freslhly powdered snow, like crystal sparkling lace,
falls over dying rose bushes,
in a window is a broken face.


When his lady Rose took her last breath,
something broke, the beginning of an end.
He covers the wound with memories,
no repair shop could possibly mend.


The winter days and nights crept by,
His eyesight became dim,
arms and legs were numb.
Lady Rose comes to comfort him.


With honeyed lips,
she kissed a shriveled cold hand.
His bride softly whispered,
"Darlin, it's warm where I am."


Police opened the heartbroken house.
Neighbors came to stare.
Nothing found, just a haven for ghosts.
And a single red rose in her chair.



By Kathie Stehr