• Suzzanne Fairbank

whispering dust

Updated: Jun 29, 2020

I visit her often my mother of nearly 100 years who sits in timeless pause, absent of her surroundings. Dust accumulated furniture with permanent stain and odors that reek of old fill the room with distaste. I watch her sit and stare, void of thought, as her finger moves in circular motion upon a stain I disgust to touch. Knick knacks stand atop each other competing for attention, only to confuse the room of any sense of order. I am overwhelmed. It will be a labor of love to rebirth this house into a home when she is gone.

I see him watching me as he does often when pacing the room, Oh, how I love the curve of his face highlighted by the twinkling of dust that dances in the afternoon light. I hope he can feel how my thoughts fill this room.

Just as I did the day he lost his first tooth upon this chair, I caress the moment marked by red on white. I breathe in the rich smell of Thanksgivings and birthdays past, hidden in the walls like bread crumbs swept into crevasses and cracks, and kitchen corners. I am surrounded by an ocean of childhood love given in gifts of trinkets a worth a mother knows

money cannot buy. Oh, the memories that make this house, his home. I am overwhelmed in the knowing I will leave him this labor of love.


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