Coins and Shadows

The house stands quiet,
a stillness pressed into corners,
where laughter once lingered
and the clatter of ordinary days
marked time with gentle hands.

Coins drift like autumn leaves
from pockets we cannot mend,
and the sum of care, measured in hours and pounds,
erodes a life, a home, a legacy
while we watch, powerless,
hearts trembling in the margin.

The rooms remember voices
that no longer speak in harmony,
whispers of “too much, too little”
simmer under the weight of what was promised,
what should have been enough.

And in the nights between,
we count the cost of love,
of presence, of being too late or too early,
our own hands shaking as the balance falls,
knowing the sum of a life
can be measured in more than money,
but still, this arithmetic leaves scars.

We mourn the living, the departed,
the silent agreements, the shouted refusals,
the endless quiet fear that runs
through family bones,
the gnawing of what remains
after the ledger is closed.

Yet here we are,
softly, tearfully,
holding what we can:
the memory of touch,
the sound of our own voices,
the fragile, stubborn hope
that love might outlast the sums.

The reason I wrote this poem:
I wrote it to capture the quiet heartbreak and lingering fear that families endure when love, care, and money collide. It’s about the erosion of a life’s savings, the tension it creates, and the invisible wounds left behind — the ones you can’t see in invoices or schedules, but feel in every hesitant glance, every whispered disagreement, and the silent fear of losing both autonomy and legacy.