Diana K. McLean: Empty

Fall '10 TOC

At first, everything was empty.

Empty left side of the two-car garage, where your Jeep used to leak oil.
I park in the middle now, no fear of banging car doors into garage walls.

Empty shelves and rod on your side of our closet.
I filled them with my out-of-season clothes and the dresses I almost never wear.

Empty drawer on your side of the bathroom vanity.
I filled it with the jewelry you gave me, until I can face taking it to a pawnshop.

Empty nightstand on your side of the bed...and your side of the king bed.
I sold them and moved back into the full bed, mine before our marriage.

Empty space in my life, my heart where the familiarity of you once reigned.

I don’t even want to fill that space. Not with another person,
another source of happiness from outside myself.

I’ve learned—am learning—to see empty as waiting,
not to be filled, but to receive.
Not from another person
but from life.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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