May 12, 2012

Short Story: When I Miss You

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.


  1. To say "nice," to the emotions and experience behind this is like complementing someone on the scar that adds character to their face. Still, you express those moments far better than I could. Good stuff, M.

  2. Thank you, Late. I'm not usually much of a "sharer." But I had to put this out into the world. A modern-day eulogy.


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