Instructions for An Empty Room

First, unlock the door.

The bottom sticks.
Slightly lift with your left hand.

I know.
I have lived next door
for thirty years.

If the key catches,
Don't force an old lock.

Some things stiffen when asked to

keep too much.

Leave the door open
until the house remembers you.

Houses notice
when strangers enter.

Once, there were six.

The father entered first,
carrying whatever he'd repaired
that day.

The mother followed,
usually with flour on her hands,

even when she wasn't baking.

The oldest slammed doors.

The middle one apologized for him.

The girl drew flowers
on envelopes
when she brought me the rent.

The little one couldn’t say my name
when she was three.

Called me “Mrs. June.”

By the time she could say it,
I had become Mrs. June.

The blue chair. He sat there.

Sundays.

Newspaper folded,

Pretending to read.

Listening to his children upstairs.

Don’t wash the window
above the sink.

A handprint there.

I know it’s only dust.

I am old, not foolish.

Six coats
behind the front door.

Four-pair shoes
beside the stairs.

Leave them.

One red mitten

inside the umbrella stand.

I don't know why.

Perhaps she dropped it.

Or found and meant to return it.

Many things a house explains
if you wait

long enough.

I was at Market
on Thursday.

Because I remember buying the wrong bread.

When I returned,
the street was quiet.

Not peaceful.

Quiet.

There’s a difference.

Their curtains, open.                                                            

Front door, unlatched.

Thought they’d gone somewhere.

That they’d be back.

You see how the mind
protects itself,

giving

the smallest possible truths,

asking you to live inside it.

I don’t know
what happened.

I wasn’t here.

Don’t ask me
who came.

I was not here.

Don’t ask me
where they went.

If only I knew.

On Tuesday,
rent was paid.

On Thursday,
The house was quiet.

By Friday,
six coats remained.

Three days
I left the porchlight on.

Then three weeks.

Then winter.

No one told me,
“keep it burning.”

I simply couldn’t
turn it off.

The electricity bill came.

I paid it.

The kitchen plant needed water.

I watered it.

A window cracked.

I replaced it.

Things we do when there is

nothing left to do.

I changed
the lightbulb

twice.

Swept the porch.

Shoveled snow
from the steps.

I never slept
inside.

Not once.

Sometimes,
I hear them.

Not ghosts.

Don't be ridiculous.

The father laughing
at something.

The mother calling
from the kitchen.

The oldest
running downstairs.

Younger one,
saying “sorry.”

The little one, whether she can “have another cookie, Mrs. June.”

Memory is a room with
thin walls.

I hear them because
I knew them.

On Sundays,
seven cups
at my table.

Six for them.

One for me.

I'm not waiting for when

Someone promises
to come home.

They didn’t promise.

They were--

taken.

Now you know
what I avoid.

Tiny word
for something so gaping.

Like someone secretly lifted
six voices,
and
carried them away.

But I’ve noticed--

Every morning since.

Listen carefully:

When you enter,
walk slow,

not touching
what Silence has kept. 

The little handprint.

Leave
the drawing on the refrigerator.

If you ask
whether they are still here,

Some questions
must stay open.

Stand in the doorway

until the room stops being empty.

Then leave

quietly.

Put the key
under the flowerpot.

I’ve always done that.

Just in case.

One

comes home.