Time. Where had it gone? The soothing tick-tock sound of the grandfather clock, which had surfed along the waves of the summer heat, had vanished inconceivably. Recapitulating back, they no longer knew when the silver SUV would crunch its way up the gravel path and park against the wize oak tree, who had grown sick from age. Many had concocted that the tree, who now had three limp branches, instead of one, withered from the absence of its metallic companion. In fact, birds no longer nested atop its forest-green leaves, and not one squirrel scrambled up its trunk, searching for some of its nuts.
Where had time gone?
The collected flower pots, clustered in rows along the windowpane, were contaminated with dust, their walls closing in on an accumulated mass of grey, rather than a friendly tulip. They yearned for cups of warm, damp soil to fill their gaping holes. The thought of an excited sapling made them squeamish. Some cracked, breaking the copper glass they once were so proud of, out of depression. What was their purpose now? It didn’t seem right, or, it didn’t feel right, rather. But they remained still, stolid, trapped, watching the oak tree rot from behind the heavily stained window.
During the quizzical solitude, the once welcoming coffee table, which now had piles upon piles of broken ornaments, tattered baseball shoes, and faded journals, rotted, its legs peeling like the sunburnt skin on a person’s back. All, who wept with deterioration, and the idea finally surfaced. They were unwanted.
Where had time gone?
Circulating the single light bulb, which protruded from the leaky ceiling,  were swarms of  flies, colliding against each other, savagely. The shabby rug, once a cushion for the wobblers, and nap area for teething labradors….sagged beneath the restless flies, disappearing gradually, and deprecatingly. It felt a wave of sadness, as clumps of its beloved fuzz floated away from it.
Where had time gone?
There were two beds, one on top of the other, perceived nearly all the time, in another life, as castles. Laughter bounced off of their superman bedsheets, and and their pillows were used as shields of armor, protecting the dazy sleepers. And then there were dreams, tons and tons of dainty visions, some depicted sugar plumbs, primarily when the frost crept along the glass windows, and others, most often then ever, rewined little lambs leaping over fences.
Now, the castle had closed, the inhabitants missing, and the beds were what they were. Screwed wood, colorless and vacant. A dangly lamp, that had once illumined the bedspreads, now stood duly, hovering above the naked mattresses, its wood patched with mold. The rocking chair, whose purpose had been to help squirming bundles rest, was tucked shamelessly in a shadowed corner, frozen. No rocking.
Where had time gone?
Just yesterday, though it felt that way, the kitchen had permeated with the gooey scent of freshly bakes pies, chocolate cookies, and an assortment of meals. Now, the stove, which had opened its mouth, triumphantly, in hopes of baking the treasures, had lost its energy. The spoons, lined in order of height, hung on the wall, hooked from their tainted screws...meaninglessly. And the bowls, which had once enjoyed the icky rotation of doe inside of them, held nothing but cookie cutters, which crawled with armies of ants.
Placed on the countertop sat the old recipe book, which contained all the secrets. Were there answers as to why the SUV never parked beside the oak tree? Were there other theories, and guesses to whom had taken the grandfather clock’s rights to track time? But there was no way of knowing, no way to measure the ticks, or even guess how long the SUV had been gone. The recipe book remained closed, almost obediently, now chewed, and ripped by the starving moths, longing for the familiar bony hands to flip open its contents. For there was magic, magic that could light the kitchen up again...but there was no magic to open the book. No magic lingered among the musty atmosphere. Only desolation.
Where had time gone?
The sounds generated by the pitter-patter of little paws, the wails that rang from the rocking chair, and the patient stirring of the bowls...were merely memories, that ringed the air like poison, and the staircase, known for its arrogance, had no ability to flash its spotless steps. For it creaked, and groaned from the push of the wind, unable to support any sort of weight...even itself. The drapes, possessing the role of trapping the sunlight, had teared, bitterly, now resembling the attire of a ghost. For sunlight filtered through their shameful holes, blotching the ceiling in golden circles. Toys. The conductors of joy, setting imagination free. Toys. Useless. Meaningless. Objects that were shoved, halfheartedly, into a wooden chest...never opened, wasting away, just like their neighbors.
Through the window, beside the toy prison, a crumbling playground struggled to survive, left in the deplorable yard, hungry for the chance to be grasped, swung, slid, or even climbed...Beside the ominous tunnels, and the lone, rat infested sandbox, a petrified, vulnerable garden, with only three tomatoes still alive, watched as its world disappeared from existence. The slide, now considerably seen as a plastic, neglected banana peel, rolled out of from the battered play house, stained, and drowned with rain puddles. Laughter.
Where had the laughter gone?
From room to room, they called out for the chance to be used, to be put to work. Productivity was a thirsty avarice which quenched the vast space of silence, and was never conquered. For the house remained alone, lost in a world of imagined ticks, becoming evanescent.