Empty Home

You are almost completely out of the house now.
Our first house together.
The house you moved into when we divorced.

You've bought a new home.
You gutted it, remodeled it and furnished it
all on your own.

For someone else to enjoy.

Since we still own our first house, together,
I've been showing it to potential renters, while you were in the process of moving out.

With the boxes
and the kick knacks
and your random items everywhere.

And it hasn't bothered me to do so.

Until today.

When I fell to my knees, in this empty house.
Our empty house.
That smells only of you.

And I cried.
No, I bawled.
No, I wailed out sobs and tears and primal noises
that echoed off the walls and through the empty rooms back to me.

So I was surrounded by my bellowing grief
your lingering ghost of a scent
and unfulfilled could've been's and tormented what if's.

This was our first home.

This is where I believed I was safe and loved.
This is where my dreams of happy ever after began.

This is where I cooked my first Thanksgiving as a wife.  For you and my dad.
The two men who meant the world to me. The two men who are no longer in my life.

And neither one of you are coming back.