The pulldown stairs groaned in protest

The pull-down stairs groaned in protest,

A reluctant throat to a forgotten space.

Sunlight, a visitor, put to the test

The dust that settled on every face.

A trunk overflowing, a spill

Of wool, a palette of dried-out paints.

My mother's ghost, standing still,

Her unfinished, silent complaints.

A crochet hook, snagged on a thread,

A brittle plastic flower, pale and thin.

So many things she left unsaid,

And so many things she didn't begin.