Dust to Dust

There is dust on the door I painted the day after you died.

A snowy Thanksgiving Day,

No power, no oven, no turkey, no company.

It was all I could do,

Dip my brush in the white paint and drag it back and forth,

Back and forth.

Colorless minutes grew into hours.

I hadn’t cleaned it since then, but

How can there be dust so soon?

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