In the Still

Empty nest.

The house has fallen silent.

No doors are opening and closing,

needlessly letting in the outside air.

The clanging dishes and flat wear lay

quiet, stacked neatly in their rows.

Stairs do not creak or moan

under the assault of rambling feet.

There is no laughter to punctuate

a stiffened moment, quips flying

like whirring ping pong balls

to fill the air; a buzz of thoughts

swarming and bouncing off the furniture

allowing even the inanimate things life.

I can hear the hum as the refrigerator churns.

Cars on the street are going about their business.

My feet rub against crinkling blanket fibers.

The clock ticks out a slow count, lest I forget,

how often I longed for this silence.

Even the bills have been paid.

It is only me and my ghosts now.