The Song of You

A house for sale is a clean house
with everything in its place.
But a lived-in house is always becoming askew,
bit-by-bit
by its inhabitants.

Less by those who clean up after themselves,
more by those who let things lie where they fall.

A dropped magazine,
letters on the floor,
water filled bowls tipped or overturned,
crumbled bits of clay scattered across the floor.

You would leave things crumpled
where you stood, sat or lay on them.
Rolled up prints, someone’s clothes,
even pizza boxes weren’t spared.

You kept yourself clean, of course,
though one can be fastidious and careless all at once.
Floors and mats were in constant need of washing.

You were diminutive: four legs and a tail,
made no sound padding down halls.
Yet even when you could not be found,
disappeared into some cabinet, crook, or closet corner,
the feeling of you was evident.

Visible even when invisible,
the song of you was everywhere.

No longer.

The halls are silent.
The soundlessness of your footfalls
continues to be silent.

But whereas before the knowledge of your presence,
somewhere within these four walls,
filled every empty space with life
and love, resonating in my heart,
the now toneless silence is deafening.