The Space You Leave Behind
Have you ever felt something that isn’t there?
Every day — especially late at night and first thing in the morning — I feel the space you leave behind. It’s like one of those weighted blankets — it engulfs me and threatens to cut off my oxygen supply while at the same time lending comfort and assurance. Because I know that, even in your absence and in spite of my wanting you to still need me, you are safe and well and whole and happy. But still there’s a vacuum where your noise and energy once was. It’s as if, by cleaning your room so thoroughly, I accidentally also erased some of you.
Then I remember the sensation of how you once slipped your hand into mine. I look around, at the photos on the walls, the relentless artwork you create with your brain and your heart, and the littered legos that somehow are still here, there and everywhere and I’m reminded that your presence is actually — thankfully — indelible.