Saturday, December 11, 2010
Papa drinks his coffee at the table, unaware of the children standing in the shadows.
Outside the snow is falling, the wind howling, creating great drifts about the house.
Mama rocks quietly by the fire, a far away look in her misty eyes.
It stands against the wall, dry and cracking, dusty from disuse.
Once the bearer of so much joy. A small, tow-headed boy flew down the snowy hillside.
His laughter could be heard across the dales.
Papa laughed, too, then and Mama sang songs of joy.
Until that fateful day that claimed their littlest boy.