Window – As I wander through the Rocky Mountains and the forgotten ghost towns and cemeteries of yesteryear, I have taken thousands of photographs. Some I like right away and after a little work I post them on social media and for sale – most I store for viewing later. Every once in a while I will review one and I am like, “How did I miss that one the first go around?”
Others like the one above jump out at me and tell their own story – I view and – I listen to the story. Pull up a log to my campfire and here is the story I heard.
She never liked it when her husband gave her the pitch,
About heading to the gold camps out west to make them rich.
Day after day she never left the window out of fear,
Hoping that she would glimpse her love as he got near.
Winter, summer, autumn, and spring all came and went,
He never sent word – she could not fathom what it meant.
Her hours turned into days – then months – then years,
It had become so long her eyes could no longer find the tears.
Sitting silently at the bay window year after year,
Waiting for her husband the one she loved – to reappear.
Feeling their mother’s misery – her children now grown,
Never leaving the window – her mind in a dark abyss – and all alone.
Sitting out the window in time she aged and grew old,
Waiting for her husband – her – their story ending to unfold.
Her home aged and succumbed to the weather and the rust,
At the window, she died and returned to whence she came – the dust.
After she died and years later when the wind is out of the west,
Still sitting – just a shadow of herself still waiting her ghostly quest.
Kurt James © 2017
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