Everyone left this morning. The house was standing still. I made my breakfast, and checked the door. There was no one to let out.
I took a break from writing, and went to say hello. Your rug was empty, so I put on some music, and turned back to the screen.
I popped in between my errands. I was hardly in the house. I started to tell you I'd be right back, then said it anyway.
At nap time, I walked downstairs. My heart gave a little thump. I'd left lunch on the table, but the food was still right there.
We shuffled through the door, arms full of bags and coats. I warned the boys, slow down, take care. But you weren't in the way.
After dinner I cleared the table. The scraps piled up uneaten. The plates, unlicked, filled up the washer, and I threw the scraps away.
At bed time, I turned the lights out. I checked the doors were locked. The room was empty, but I said goodnight, and left the room alone.