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Writer's pictureL. Roy Aiken

Sundown on the Last Saturday Before the Canceled Holidays, November 2020

Updated: Jul 11, 2021

I walk into the room and

stop before amber rails of

sunlight piercing the dusty window

painting the furniture and walls

just like it did

when everyone was alive


I hear their voices

rippling in other rooms

the splash of a grandmother’s

laughter among

chattering streams of

aunts and uncles


the walls glow as my friends

did when we were still

friends and

young


I hear a television playing

among the haloed motes

of dust and remember that

most of the things we loved

as children are gone


comic books on supermarket spinner

racks now comic book stores

now comic books

gone altogether


and the monster magazines

at the 7-11 and the

music on the radio and

the TV shows and movies

that we’d talk about

next day at school


because of the hoax pandemic

watching the latest Big Movie

in a crowded theater is

a quaint custom

of a more secure past

that only felt more secure

because here we are now


The sun slips behind

the black jagged line

of mountains and

the silence returns

only the distant barking of dogs

the occasional car on the road

to remind me of what’s left


I’m glad to be here still

if only to marvel at this once

unimaginable desolation

if only because someone

had to write about it

someone had to stand alone

in this fading light

to mourn


I trust God

to tell me

in due time.


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