Walking across the dust covered floor, uncovering old laughter in my mind, of the times we'd tried to keep things quiet. Do you remember the failure of our fluffy pillow covers, when we hoped not to make a sound? Trying not to wake our sleeping little brother in the next room? Those times, of happy hearts, joy, and ease? Light minds and new starts. We were truly free. Almost running everywhere we dared, without fear or any cares.
      With each step I take, my heart drops into the chasm of remembrance. It's all so close and dear, but forever far away from my grasping fingers and aching heart without you near. I shake my head as our excited little children's voices come back to tell me of all our fun.
     Stretching out tentative fingers I touch the small sign ' club house B'  that hung inside the attic door. The familiar smell without you next me is almost unreal. Closing the paper with my tears, I fold it and tuck it away so it will make no one else feel what I feel.
     These things of memory left behind are all alone. Dusty, dirty, with no safe home. What used to be so cared for and seen, is wiped away from our life by reality. Forgotten with all the days of playing at the Great Depression. You and me. Our knitting needles cracking and the yarn in knots. Our pink rose lamp that shone on our tedious jumbled work, of which I was so proud of. The stuffy close quarted feel, the scrapes while getting in as we banged our knees. Everything such a part of me.
     Sitting on our bed, I look out to the swings. Oh, but weren't those the greatest of things. Now they  swing all alone, no children's smiles and stretching toes, to touch the leaves. Do you still know? The feeling that we would get as our hair flung around and became the winds best friend. You must recall the dreading, that as we faced the woods the other would say the 'Never Stop Swinging' oath, so that we couldn't get off even when we wanted. Dreading it, but only so that the waiting was more exciting then if we hadn't. Now I can't fit in those swings you know, I've grown in more than size, but in years. There is only pain where I once saw joy, and where we used to play, only tears.
     I turn and rise, to ashamed to tell you how much I've cried. My searching eyes find it then, now so cold, the means of your inspirations. Silent black and white keys lay motionless longing for the fingers of their mistress. Quiet without your touch, to make it alive and soaring. It longs. In my head if I really try, I can imagine it ringing with your songs.
     Walking through the woods I see with sunlight falling across my path, on the leaves pale backs, those days of mud pies and stews, of acorns leaves and berries. Tying together our corn husk dolls, and finding houses and holes for our fairies. The games of indians, do you remember? When we would paint our faces with the dye of the berry bushes on the paths side. We'd cook our food and build our houses. Tipis they were, tall and magnificent in their simple design. I can still feel the pride, and security, among and underneath the many trees and leaves. But it gives my heart no rest, with you where you are instead.
   At night when the bright white moon comes past the clouds and peeks through, I no longer smile and tell you how it's beauty makes me new. I cannot listen anymore and be comforted by the peepers at night, because listening to them together was why their eerie sound was alright.  I can talk to myself before drifting into dreams, but it no longer holds anything for me when someone does not care to hear, or even tell me to go to sleep. Your empty desk and chair, sitting in the moonlight make me stare. And I whisper all my struggles to you though I know you cannot hear my prayer. I almost wish I could hear someone snore, some kind of noise, so that it would would break the dearth of companionship. 
     I cannot try to keep you from entering my mind, for you are all about, and apart of me. You were in life. I cannot hide from your memories. Without you somehow it's not life anymore, and sometimes it gets hard to see the things I live for. I seem to cling to dreams in the night, or hopes in the air the things that I know do not stay but somehow snare.
     Living on without you is something not to be grasped, it cannot be said in simple words or even one phrase. It is something that forces you to go on, through it all, and grow in the pain. And as I close my eyes and live in my ways, the music of loss and tears and ache, keep mixing with the wind of recollection of dear things from faraway yesterdays.