No one

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Wandering through fall colors, crackling dry underfoot...and then it slows me... and I see right away that no one lives here.
My heart beats a little faster as my steps take me to stand at the base of the porch stair. I push the dried leaves with the side of my foot, and see that the wood is good, it will hold me. One foot, then another, and then I am close... close enough to peer through grimed windows.

Bones of old houses and leavings of sad lives... I spot an enameled cookstove, covered with newspaper, oilcloth, mouse droppings, a tipped mug. Immediate wonder at who left their life behind for strangers to find. What illness, crisis, or calling led to the last locking of the door and the resolute walk away? What knarled hand slid down the old banister for the last time, or watched as the trees waved farewell?
No one lives here.

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