Miss Zoie

Stepping into that old house.
I hear the familiar tinkling,
Of glass ornaments in the window.
The window is now dust covered.
The door squeaks louder than before.
The floor groans as I enter.

I can still smell that smell.
The archaic pungency that made me high,
When I would lay upon the carpets as a child.
It still makes me heady, even now.
Who knows what could have made that scent.
I used to blame the wrinkled dust gremlins.

My eyes slowly glide across the room.
It’s not like before, it’s dead.
A dirty, rosy pink carpet, broken blinds.
These are remnants of a happy home.
The wall paper peels, and the ceiling fan rotates.
Furniture from another era stands ever still.

We are the laborers sent to dismantle this world.
I help lift a table with a peach marble top.
How many tea cups rested here?
It used to sit by a sea foam couch.
And a menagerie of odds and ends.
These all were watched by a girl and a well on the wall.

She cried when we took her car.
She marched two miles to the store alone.
She told the neighbors such a passionate thing,
“They can have my car, but they can’t take my legs!”
The children just watched Miss Zoie,
As she made her way down the street.

It hurts us to admit that she cannot be here.
It hurt us seeing tears from such a proud woman.
If only time wasn’t so greedy, and relentless;
Then maybe she could still care for herself.
None of these thoughts help as I work.
I can see her standing outside just standing.

Her legs do not tremble, and her chin is set.
Miss Zoie is more courageous than all of us.