Empty Space

When she birthed kids and wrapped herself around them,

I got empty space

I was a forgotten blip in time

My being was erased, and she filled the space, my old space, with new neighbors, cookie parties, and church

I found there was no room at the inn, just a gap as wide as the states stretch

I have holes that memories don’t quite fill, because

they aren’t alive, like hugs and smiles,

or a freshly baked cookie dunked in creamy coffee,

at a kitchen table covered in her hand-sewn tablecloth

A photo every few years mailed helter-skelter, perhaps appearing at Christmas – or

A quick note to give voice to the fulfillments in her life,

a short note to family-brag

filled with words, but the empty spaces of what isn’t said, shouted louder.

So, it is done. A memory hole deeper than the ocean,

of some long-ago times

but really a deep and empty gulley of

what could have been.