Absence
A short poem on absence, memory, and the rooms we leave behind.
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Someday, this room shall be empty.
Someday, this page shall be blank.
A day will come where a child’s laughter will become wedding bells.
A day will come when the warm wrinkles of an old man’s hands will become the cold smoothness of granite.
A room absent is not empty.
Though the handrail is now crooked and splintered, it was once polished smooth by the excess of hands.
The house is full with hands that didn’t build it, generations lost, memories forgotten, rooms that no longer remember their beginnings.
Someday, I, who is me, shall be no more.