memories of home

Medium

Digital

Artist Notes

© 2011 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved _________________________________________________________________________________ Night is no time to examine the soul. Yes, it's quiet - too quiet - the jangle of the world put away, but inhabited nonetheless by spectres chainganged to your memory. A dim little figure hangs back at the door, timidly peeking, but never steps in. Who is she, this phantom who's given you breath but could not stay to watch your wings unfold? _________________________________________________________________________________ Does she miss you, the daughter of her dreams, or are you one of her spectres, consigned to the dungeon of her mind, imprisoned there to make life possible? Lurking in the closet is the stand-in with her face, now smiling, now scornful. Go ahead and slam the door shut - inside she waits, a cup of tea in one hand, in the other hand a whip, these gifts inflicted randomly regardless of your needs. _________________________________________________________________________________ Under your bed creaks a cherrywood casket. Your father sits up, gazing silently, sorrowfully, too weak to help, too strong to forget, his hooded eyes reflecting your pain, his mouth gagged and muzzled by the wish for peace at any price, even if that price is the destruction of his children. ~ from 'The Nautilus Chamber', © 2011 RC deWinter