The proud mansion sits
basking in long gone glory
it’s white exterior repainted
over and over
each time
placing unwanted layers
between the Museum
and the Home
it once was.

Instead of distant remarks on the mansion’s vastness
and light footsteps
there were grinning little girls
in canary yellow dresses
slipping socks
and loose hair ribbons
running and skidding
down the long corridors
slamming small hands with triumph
onto the intricate wallpaper
at the end of the hall
proclaiming with glee
that they had won.

Instead of mapped tours of cold clipped gardens
there were brightly painted red bicycles
placed haphazardly
against dark green bushes
and fairy houses built into the
sides of garden walls.

Instead of hushed voices and stern sshhhs
there was
clamorous joy
and even louder defeat
and the mansion would
feel it all;
the great house
vibrated with jubilation
when the giggling would
carry itself through the house
and the great house
shuddered with sorrow
when cries and harsh voices
would seep through the rooms.

But even worse than sobs and loud voices
was the suffocating silence
of when summer was over
and all the finger prints were wiped from the walls
and the bicycles loaded onto carriages
and the quiet would settle itself in the mansion
until the warm weather came again.

Now, today,
the mansion still sits
waiting and dreaming
of the summer it once knew.