Occupied

By evening,

the hallway always feels occupied.

Not crowded.

Just occupied.

As if someone has stepped away

and forgotten to take the shape of themselves with them.

I know how that sounds.

I know what my daughter says.

Nobody's there, Dad.

And maybe she's right.

But someone keeps moving the photographs.

Not far.

Just enough that I notice.

The wedding picture was facing the window this morning.

Now it's facing me.

Or maybe

I turned it myself.

These days, I trust objects

more than memory.

Objects stay where they are put.

Until they don't.

Last week,

I found two mugs drying beside the sink.

One with lipstick

faded into the porcelain.

I stood there a long time,

trying to remember

whether I had forgotten to wash it,

or forgotten

that there was no reason to.

Sometimes,

walking to the mailbox,

I hear another pair of steps.

Not close enough to frighten me.

Close enough

that I slow down.

Close enough

that I almost say,

Careful.

There's ice.

Like I used to.

I don't turn around.

Not because I'm afraid.

Because I already know

who I hope it is.

And hope can be cruel

when it puts on familiar shoes.

Yesterday,

my grandson visited.

Such a sweet boy.

He told me his name twice.

I laughed,

like he was teasing.

After he left,

I found his name written

on the back of my hand.

Not in his handwriting.

Mine.

As if I had known

I would need help finding him again.

Tonight,

the hallway feels occupied.

I am sitting in my chair

pretending to read.

And every so often,

I have the strange feeling

that something behind me

is trying very hard

not to let me disappear first.

So I don't turn around.

Not yet.

I would rather believe

that whatever is following me

isn't death.

Or a ghost.

Or madness.

Just all the versions of myself

walking a little slower,

trying their best

to keep up.

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Entry for "Don't Turn Around" Challange...