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( december 16th )
The room is heavy, she never liked it.
It is the gaze of every portrait, they weigh on her like suffocating cloth dipped in chloroform. They are boulders on her shoulders, on her chest. East wing, dining room, two of four walls decked in her husband's ancestry that hasn't welcomed her, not warmly at least. Is it because they have no arms, most portraits done full face, crackling features as if they had been attacked by old age. Caroline Becker looks at them as the maid sets the table for four, she thinks death got them first.
She thinks, death gets everyone first.