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This old house creaks, and I along with it. Are we aging together or is it I am aging alone. Sounds in the wee hours, as if someone is running water, making tea, perhaps, but never inviting me. It’s only for a moment and then it stops, until a door hinge creaks. I must remember to put some oil on it. And the windows, new, but still a draft, as the curtain flutters with the wind, sending chills through these old bones. Footsteps in the hallway, the pitter-patter of a child, aimlessly walking in the night. Do you feel her, too?

I am aging, but not senile, and I am not alone. I have opened my doors to another realm, one that is not afraid to take residence in mine, and I, not afraid to welcome them in.

 

©2018 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
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