The Dying Father and his Daughter

The room
Dense, empty, stark.
A voice echoed. Sudden.

'Pulse?'
'Negative, sir.'

'Love?'
'Was forever.'

'Laugh?'
'In fits.'

The room had lost its charm. She had gone. Was married away. There were no more memories.
Talks. Chatter. Conversations. It was lost. The charm had swept off. Another home, another place.
There was no answer. None to the doorbell too. It was a plain house. With no-one in it.
Except the ghost of some memories.

Sometimes I wonder how she is doing. Is she happy? Content. Does that word apply?
As I stand here, looking at that rickety old armchair, I wonder.

She had stood there, talked to me. Told me her last wish, to get married.
Love, she had whispered to me. The man, she had talked about him.

I had lashed out.

What else could a father do?

It took two minutes. The confrontation.
She walked out.
Independent women, I say.