What will happen to the paintings when the house is up for sale and an auction's taking place?
Will strangers stand around on hardwood floors twisting scratches into varnished oak as bids dislodge our silent storytellers from walls they spoke from through windows they opened on worlds we longed for and dreamed about?
Ah, won't all those hand-clasped chins thrown back and judgment noddings frighten our poor shy Maiden at the Stream, fetching water as she did for us daily to watch teaching us what beauty was and what it meant for us?
Had ever a day passed without our glancing up at her gladdened by her being there and being one of us?
Ah, won't we stand there sad staring at hooks and nails in empty faded rectangles and squares regretting having let the paintings go, won't we be taken aback when feisty bargainers stand sceptically inquiring before making each prize their own, then rushing off with it heedless of the pain we suffered, alone enthralled with their success?