Ashes
I pulled the suitcase down from the attic.
It was heavy,
crammed tight with decaying memories
and reeking of mothballs and rancour.
It seemed a good place to hide,
wrapped up tightly in rags and tatters
and covered in dust.
But I didn't hide there,
for the air was thick enough
with all the hurt and anger
tossed about in this house.
I could see the dust floating
in the fingers of light
that were clawing their way in
through closed shutters.
I opened up the windows wide,
to let the sun in,
for I didn't want to be buried
in my own ashes today.
© Christine Magee
