Leaving for Good - Aug 1 2023

 

Leaving For Good

Aug 1 2023



Even the sound was different.

Just blank walls

and bare hardwood floors.

Where all that was left

of the thick wool rug

was an outline

in lighter wood.

Where the plush sofa

was no more.

How its upholstery had been worn

to a threadbare shine,

its ample cushions

lost their bounce.

Where sun flooded in

through the big expanse of glass

into dark secluded corners

as never before;

dust bunnies

caught in the light

like prisoners on the lam.

But how nice

to see those pleated curtains taken down,

clouds of dust

rising from their heavy folds.

For too many years

they'd made the place look old and fusty,

but I guess I stopped noticing

as the years added up.

So now, there was nothing

to absorb sound;

just cold hard surfaces

reflecting it.

But what really struck me

was how large the place looked.

And how the living room

with no life left in it

seemed indifferent to my presence,

whatever character it once contained

carted off with the movers.

Because emptiness

is less than simple measurement.

How it felt

as if I'd never been there.

As if all the memories

had been expunged.

As if every letter

had been addressed

to whatever “occupant”.

This is what happens

when all that remains

is still air

where all the dust has settled,

the unsparing glare

of full light .

When footsteps

on a hardwood floor

land like breaking glass.

When you close the door

for the last time

and a home becomes a house.

When a place is left for good.

Or at least for somebody else.