The Spaces Between

I show my house the pictures of you

ask it if it remembers when you lived closer

when you were a frequent guest. I feel the ache and the strain of a house trying to uproot itself, as if

it were some great, lazy dog trying to find the will to move twitching its tail in a futile attempt

to attract attention to itself.

I, too, wish I could find some way to reach you

that doesn’t require the enormous effort it takes to get to the airport or make plans that involve weeks and weeks of my life in advance. These are fragile excuses, ones

I don’t dare speak aloud. Instead, I tell the house

you’ll be back someday

to sit on my couch and fill these empty rooms

with your stories and your laughter

and it will be so wonderful that it will be as if

you’d never left.