Where's Dad? J.M. Strother He sits beside the window, waiting for that old expected sound of the car shifting into park. But it never comes. He stands beside the front door, Head cocked to one side, then another, Wishing for jingle of his keys. The door does not move. He lies beside the arm chair Night after night; heaves a heavy sigh. The chair remains empty and cold. Now forever cold. Tail seldom wags; ears droop low. He lingers long now, downstairs at night, Comes to bed late, when house is still. Oh, so very still. He looks to me with questions, Unspoken, yet so plainly asked. Sadly; unable to explain. How can I explain?

 
~jon
My Blog - Mad Utopia Writing in a new era.