it sits there,
quietly in the corner,
covered in a fine sheen of avoidance;
it has followed her for generations,
capturing the love, hate, goodbyes, and bequeaths of her ancestors;
she walks by it everyday,
and a hundred silent voices call her to
come, sit, add your notes to the song of our existence;
she cries, knowing she is the last who cares;
and she walks on by, feeling some things are better left to history;
so, the story shall end with her,
tucked quietly in a corner,
and safely in her heart

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