Widow’s Walk

Railings — Will 668

Each day I pace the widow’s walk, iron bars confine me between comforting safety and piercing pain.

My ceremony performed in solitude, pregnant with apprehension, I await the marching parade depositing sadness on my step.

They come only if they see my silhouette.

If tomorrow I did not ascend the stairs, might the despair beyond my horizon end?

No.

For if they did not come, I could not burden them with my message of love to return to those for whom I will watch.

Again, tomorrow.