An Empty House

Houses each have their own sort of aura about them, a character, a life, a spirit, he told us.

And he was not incorrect.

Because now his house stands still in the grayness of misty January days.

Its shutters rest open but all is dark inside.

The creaks echo through its hollowness.

And every time we look out our windows, leave the front door, pull out of the driveway, we see a house meant to be dignified and full of life, now in a quiet state of mourning, almost looking dilapidated, as isolated and anxiously perplexed as its previous owner.

It's as though this abandoned shell can do nothing but repeat the words he once said to me from across the table:

les ténèbres qui entourent, les ténèbres qui entourent, les ténèbres qui entourent