Curtains of Dust

The thoughts linger in and around these old rooms.
Voices hide behind curtains of dust
That have given birth to themselves over and over...
She is 74.
She lives alone
In the flat below ours.

Standing in the balcony
I had dropped my scarf
And it had fallen, slowly drifting,
Onto the ledge of her balcony.

I knocked on the old wooden door,
Waited ten minutes before I heard her
Shuffling towards me.

She smiled as I explained what had happened,
And taking my hand
Led me through the dark corridors
That were her home,
Out into the balcony
Where I recovered my scarf before it fell into the street.

I thanked her,
Apologised for any disturbance I might have caused
And she just smiled...

I wasn't sure what else to say,
So I turned to leave the flat...
Part of me wanting to stay there with her,
Accept the drink that she offered me
And talk to her as though she were the grandmother I never had.

Part of me couldn't get out of there fast enough,
Embarassed and flustered as I was.

But that wasn't all.

I was scared.

Scared that I would become
This 74 year old woman
Alone.
With only the ghost of my husband
To talk to.
I could almost hear his voice ringing through the apartment
Because she hadn't let go of him
When he died.

I walked out the door
And she closed it behind me.

Running back up the stairs
To my safe-haven
Of a family that I find myself taking for granted,
I told myself
I might go back down there some day
Knock on her door
And ask her if she wouldn't mind some company...

I know I probably won't though...