She sat on her rickety, wooden bench, Face to face with her piano. Her bony, wrinkled fingers Refuse to play a tune. Breakfast sat on the kitchen table. Steaming grits Blanketed by hammy-down China Would stay forever untouched. The floral tablecloth No more to be disturbed. The footprints in the Faded, blue carpet Would always stay imprinted. Hymnal books older Then her great grandchildren Snuggled around her feet. A harp in the corner And a doll Whose expression never changed. Loose photos lay on every corner And every dusty shelf. Her fine, white hair Swirled neatly together on her head, Secured by a singular pin. A pair of marble hands Sit alone as they pray. A cross over the doorway And a Bible on her nightstand. All of her songs have been sung.
L. F. Conrad is a sophomore at Cumberland Univeristy and she is studying Creative and Professional writing. Lillian loves all things outdoors, creative, and adventurous. She is excited for her future semesters at Cumberland University.