home-coming

I arrive with dread,
a deep knot in my heart
(how can a knot be of emptiness)
that's been with me for days,

but our home is not yet empty
of you.

You've not managed to finish
packing your things
your washing
is hanging
where it always hangs
but you are not here
and I won't see you
dressing that beautiful body
at the foot of our bed
wearing them
or feel your naked skin against me,
anymore.

I clean
and pile
all of your things
in your study:
I count one, two, three gifts I gave you
that you were
going to leave behind.

I find a simple joy
in weeding this garden
of unnecessary objects.

The weight of knowing
we could have done all this
without bearing the heavy load
of your leaving
enlarges the pain in my heart.

There are echoes
in every direction
of choices, words, possibilities
not made or spoken.

Every plan you've made for leaving
has broken
been delayed,
even rain in a drought has fallen,
but you
keep forcing your way forward
struggle
vibrating along
the web of our lives
as we hold on
and up
into our hearts
to add more layers
more load
squeezing the love
into other colours,
cousins,
like
longing
and compassion
and endurance
and long-suffering surrender.

This home is full to overflowing
with you
and you are not here anymore.
I wonder to myself
if this place has such trouble
letting you go
how will I: body, heart, mind, spirit
ever do it?