When your the last of the line of the family, you keep waiting for someone to show up. Someone that used to wait for you that you used to count upon seeing when you returned from outside somewhere. Instead of course there is nothing. Just empty silence and bright sun drenched shadows of a past that once so familiar has immediately faded from your present tense reality. The feelings within remain however and you are ever disappointed with each return, your guts telling you that this default experience of hollowness is but a temporary occurrence. That your deceased loved ones are merely on an unannounced vacation and will return at some point in the near future. They stare at you from the happier moments of your choosing from those framed photographs that you’ve assembled in shrine-like fashion. All you though of on the way home were former days focused by long familiar places where an anecdote similar to the outlook of today was long ago shared. But the reality is that like the ancient mythological figure of Prometheus, your emotions are torn apart with each return to what has gone from home to mausoleum. They are gone and their ghosts inhabit your waking memories. You are a stranger in your own abode that once was theirs and all the substantive worthwhile fiction tales belong to them and not you. You are an interloper who had the misfortune of not dying earlier than they. For in the end you must accept that you are the only one. You must turn out the lights and firmly shut the door because from this point on, there is no one else and nothing else to do.
Last In Line