Weightless Waiting

The doorbell rings,
And the ghosts of the house awake at the sound.
A silence has persisted for only a few days,
But it seems like years
The living but half empty residents arise too,
But only enough to walk to the door
Half hoping to see their son,
Half hoping for Death,
In his dark hood, coming to take them, too.

Down the hall was another
Past wood planks that squeak with life
Under feet pressing them down.
The hallway was dark, void of the former life

This door was shut tightly,
A cross hanging from its knob,
Above, The Lord’s Prayer nailed to its frame.

Two were now staring down this passage,
A mother and father,
Seeing only a void now.
Mirroring the one torn through their hearts-
Hearts aged twenty years this week.

Their heads turn back to the front door,
With their hearts still staring blankly down the hall
Death was not waiting at the door, or their son,
But instead another nameless face, aching with a void.

A motion, come in, another, a hug
Eyes meet, nothing can be seen
They stare through each other
To the void that pierced the others heart
Tears follow, they mean nothing

Silence falls once more
Like the world dropped out from under them
The wood planks, leaving blackness below them

In her eyes, the boy changes for an instant
The scene moves far away, far from her present prison
Her boy, shoes unlaced and loose
Dragging a Scooby Doo backpack down the sidewalk
A bus, yellow as the sun he had finger-painted the day before
Stopping, turning, smiling, waving his small hand

A larger, much colder hand grasps hers
Tugging her back, back to the present,
The hand leaves hers and beckons
The boy moves forward
The father whispers
The boy understands

The boy leaves them alone,
Just as they were before he walked away
Climbing the stairs, he stops, taking a breath
Collecting his thoughts, he is weightless


He enters a room, though it doesn’t feel right
Something screams at him to turn back
There is nothing he will like here
The room is a mess, restless almost
Maroon walls
The bed is made, though, seeming out of place
It is big enough for two
But no one had slept in it for days

On it, a newspaper article,
An obituary
Wet with tears and crinkled
As if it had been clutched for many hours
His mouth falls open as he reads it
A small gasp shoots through the room
Reverberating just long enough for him to shuffle to the mirror
Nothing reflecting back

At the front door, a weary woman
Clutching the knob and peering outside
A shout from the kitchen rouses her
“Anyone there, honey?”
She collapses to the floor in grief
There was no one there