He Sits In Your Place

Grief came to my door one day. I tried to turn my head as if he were not there, though he patiently waited for me to look. I yelled and screamed to make him leave, he was not welcome in my home. He waited again for me to realize it was now also his. I told him he could have what he wanted if only he would leave. He shook his head no, leaned in. I stepped away and let him inside.

He never leaves his dishes in the sink or his socks on the floor. 

He greets the waiting dog. 

He grabs the mail still in the mailbox.

He wears the unmoved shoes in the hallway. 

He sits in the dent in the sofa and reads the book on the window sill. 

He lies in the neatly folded pillows on the bed and plays with the scattered toys on the rug. 

He drinks from the blue mug and eats out of the cereal box. 

He bakes in the kitchen, cooks leek and beef dumplings.

He walks the worn path in the grass towards the treehouse. 

He attends the get-togethers.

He sings the duet in my solos.

He glints in my half of the friendship necklace. 

He looks through the albums and the boxes of concert bracelets and movie tickets. 

He hides in the unopened gifts tucked in the back of the closet. 

He enters the room I cannot face. 

He hears the words I never spoke.

He reads the messages that never went through. 

He never grew smaller. He never left. He lives in my home, our home. We must learn to live with each other. 

He holds my hand. My heart. 

He is silent. So very silent.

CCHIO