States the sign, chiseled in wood, swinging over abandoned dreams.
Who decided this quest was over?
It never began, or it died, or it wasn’t what it seemed.
The sofa by the shed
The crumbling chimney, now stones on ground
The plants in the window, dead
Here the birds don’t sing, the squirrels don’t scamper, here
There is no sound
I don’t know who drove the car, now consigned to rust
I don’t know who loved the house
With windows covered in dust
Here something started, but stopped
Here something was found, but lost
The quest is over.
But not the way that they thought.
–Kirsten A. Thorne, PhD