That place where you hung your jacket, tossed your shoes, left your backpack-it’s still here.
Foolish, really, to hold space for someone who will never need it again.
But it belongs to YOU and leaving it bare means that it is still yours.
And it is- Still. Yours.
Just like the end chair at the dining room table-the one you fought over as a teen when you and your brothers would pick at and elbow each other until I finally had enough and moved you there.
No one sits there now.
Who could ever fill it?
Upstairs bookcases hold notebooks, text books and random memorabilia from your trips abroad and trips around the country.
Small testimony to a large life. Little reminders of a huge presence.
Sacred spaces-set apart from everyday use-for the purpose of holding memories,
keeping you with us.
The most sacred, most intimate-the space in my heart-where you burrowed in before you were born. Where you left your rhythm and laugh and a giant hole. As near as my breath, as far away as the stars.
I refuse to fill them in,
to let them go,
to allow the creep of daily life to erase your stamp on who I am and who you are.
The emptiness speaks volumes.
I won’t silence it.