Funny how memory differs… My fears, closeted, clouded the view… Your oblivion smug… there was potential there, I’m sure – but sometimes love isn’t enough expectations and insults impenetrable dividers…
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @ Vjknutson. Image my own)
Slippers, perched at night stand, twitching impatiently, mark the absence of feet, cannot appreciate the meaning of unruffled bed covers.
Abandoned, a coffee mug bemoans its curdling contents, complains of thick brown lines contaminating its porcelain shine, has not noted absence of hands.
Chair, pushed back from desk, in partial rotation, sits awkwardly, commanding attention, disturbed by its misalignment, has not thought to ponder absence of body.
House, uncomfortable with silence, creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing objections to the absence of footfalls, automated machinery and incessant rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.
I try to reassure them that the absence is only temporary, that the man whose presence so strikingly fills this space will return, hope they cannot read the apprehension in my tremulous heart.
(Absence was written six years ago, while my husband recovered from a triple bypass. Image my own.)