Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

A House Is Not A Museum

It is too clean and quiet in the house now,
as if we had lost a child.
There is an emptiness.
A sadness.
A loneliness
stretching down the hall and into the bedrooms.
Everything is so in its place
it feels as if no one actually lives here.
I walk through the house like I am walking through a museum.
On the wall in the den hangs the “Otterson”,
a picture of a dark haired woman
looking too much like me to be a coincidence.
In the dining room the Cezanne pen and ink
looks back at me accusingly as I straighten the frame.
The drum set,
silent as ever,
waits in the living room,
sticks perfectly placed.
The bathroom tile sparkles
and the toilets look more like 1950’s art deco pieces
than functioning fixtures.
The white towels, newly washed and folded,
smell of lavender,
and look so perfect that I am scared
to ever use them again.
Outside,
in the garden,
freshly planted pansies stand a little too erect to be natural,
making one wonder if they might melt in the sun.
It is all so perfect I keep waiting for some middle-aged curator
to come and throw me out,
and tell me that the house is closed
and to come back tomorrow
after nine.