A different kind of leaving.

Telephone.

You left today and the counter is bare.

It is clean, but it is bare.

You left today and the bed is made.

Is is also clean; and it is bare.

You left today and took all of the stuff you brought for your own personal care.

It's gone now, the house is decluttered.  And it is bare.

You weren't in the kitchen making your coffee,

You weren't at the sink brushing your teeth.

You weren't at the table eating with us.

You aren't here now, to visit with, and to hug.

Is this how you felt when he went away?  Clean? decluttered? and bare?

Is that how your days felt after he passed?  unfettered? empty? bare?

Do I dare ask these questions? Since you, while not here, are still there.

So then is this how it felt when I went away? and each time I have gone away since?

Is this an introduction, then, to an empty nest?

To put off this longing, and imitation of grief

I pick up the telephone, and smile again.