Beside the still lake, the house stood once;
His father had pointed it out on one of their
Morning walks, an adolescence ago:
‘She lives alone there, the mother;
Her only son went to the city, to get a job,
Never to be heard from again.’
Ever since, he’d sigh whenever he passed by the lake.
Last night, he dreamt of it, the sad house,
The roof was in shambles, last time he checked,
And though he didn’t enquire, the lady must be dead.
It’s rare for him, to remember stories from childhood,
Which haven’t already been shared
With people who are dead, or changed.
Tales from an Anonymous Bystander 