The Empty Room

What happens to an empty room? A room that no one uses?

It’s empty, and you feel the emptiness.

She’s not there.

Every day I open the door, pull back the curtains and open the window.

Every day it’s the same. Nothing has moved. The lingering scent of candles, perfume and hair spray gets fainter as the days pass. Blown away by the gentle August breeze. No empty mugs of tea, with little green rings in the base. No clothes discarded on the floor, no mess, no change.

Every day is quiet, oh so quiet. I’d even miss the podcasts, the American commentators that she loves. Her energy is gone, the whirlwind of activity. The gush of news every evening. The fabulous smells that fill the kitchen.

After a while the room seems to close in on itself. Stay away, it seems to cry as you dare to cross the threshold. Leave me undisturbed. As though it’s succumbing to a coma-like sickness. Pining for the person who is missing.

Empty inside.

 

The empty room belongs to my eldest daughter who was away for  2 1/2 weeks and has now returned, breathing life back into the room once more.

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