The chest of drawers has something to say.
I can feel its practical, sturdy reliance.
He’s coming back, it tells me.
Look, he’s left some clothes in here, and that photo he loves.
The wardrobe wants to chip in with similar reassurances,
but it lacks the gravitas required.
Who could take anything painted that bright green seriously?
The wood on the chest top shines like tempered chocolate caramel,
and the drawer fronts are scuffed around the knobs from years
of rushed dressing for school, college, and work.
My eyes are sore and gritty. From this untimely bug, or my crying,
or both.
It will pass.
The chest understands.
It has witnessed much.
It remembers the feeling of being emptied.

Writing and reading posts has taken a back seat for the past week. I have been distracted with an impending trip, preparing to embark on a Masters, a horrible bug and, most significant of all, my youngest beginning his own adventure in Canada. We waved him off at the airport on Sunday.