Day 433

A girl finds a pen, draws a picture
of her house:  her house the way it was.
Her house with its yellow curtains, her house
with brightly painted rooms, with someone
always in the kitchen, with children
sitting on the rug, with a mother
bringing them a bowl of fruit
and a father sitting at a desk, writing.
The pen has been half-buried
in the dust; she wonders
for a minute who it used to
belong to, what they did
with it.  She draws.  With each line
she makes, the house grows
whole again:  an uncle now
sits in a large blue chair.
Two cousins have come to the door.
Steam rises from a pot on the stove.
Outside the windows, trees:  orange trees,
olive trees, jasmine, a rosebush
with a yellow rose. She draws and draws.
Night may fall, she thinks; morning may come
and still she will be bringing back her house:
her street, her neighborhood, even her school.
It’s all coming to her again, with each line
her life resurrects itself.  But the ink
grows pale, the pen starts leaving
large empty spaces on the page. 
Soon there will be nothing left
to draw with.  Soon whatever 
she hasn’t drawn will be condemned
to remain in the ghost-world.