The Cupboard

It hangs on the wall, in its place, solid, unremarkable. Outside, the seasons change, the sun rises and sets, time passes. The cupboard is full now, and has been for many years, a place to put things and close the doors, hiding them away from casual guests and inquiries, one in a row of solid boxes mounted to the wall. Doors are straight, hinges oiled, and it hangs true where ceilings meet walls, and walls meet floors, and floors absorb the many steps of those within. And I, I spend my days filling the cupboard with passed lives and past Life, and no one looks within but me. It's shelves are are full, but rearranged at times, the faces to the back for now, the names placed at the front for easy reaching, times and dates to the side, all within easy reach and sight for when I need to look and remember, safe behind the oaken doors I've closed. A rare day indeed, of late, do I open it, washing away the dust of years, taking notes, inventory, each item in its place, filed in memories and dreams, then closed again. A half empty glass sits on the counter below, the setting sun throwing thin beams of light through the window, the cupboard, now in evening shadows, waits....... and stays solidly silent in the darkening room, content with its place and its purpose. Quietly, night falls, birds hush, starts gleam dimly in a darkened sky, and within, cielings meet walls, walls meet floors, and floors wait for quiet steps. The cupboard still hangs true and straight, a place for a sleepless hand to open its doors and place a dreram within. It waits.... unremarkable... solid... it waits.
                                                                                       JC7071