March 30, 2024
92 Days Without You
As I sit here, in your chair, listening to the same clock tick, the silence is the loudest sound in the room. You should be whistling or getting up to get a cup of coffee. The price is right should be on in the background as we try to win the games ourselves. But it is silent except for that same tick of the clock.
The home was once filled with life, whether happy or messy or both (I know it was was both), but now it sits alone and quiet. As if its work is done. It served its purpose. It was the transition house. It was the gap between life and death and old life and new life. The last place you called home.
