On Sunday, the blue door is tightly shut, no sign of life.
On Monday, the door is slightly ajar. From somewhere within, a violin.
On Tuesday, two beautiful eyes peer out at me – one gold, one brown. The violin sings an invitation.
On Wednesday I bring armfuls of flowers, an outpouring of my exuberant youth.
On Thursday, the eyes are filled with tears. The violin sounds jagged, like broken glass.
On Friday, the two eyes, the violin, the deep blue door – all are gone, leaving no trace. And I, I have suddenly become a very old man.