Books, piled on tables,
On the floor,
In a bookcase.
Dogeared, some open, most closed.

Pictures ring the walls of the house.
Children: older, younger, and younger still.
Who are they, why are they here?
The pictures are part of the houses soul,
its essence.

Pictures hung with magnets on
the refrigerator door: more children,
Slips of paper, notes,
little pieces of nothing
stuck on a door.

Pictures of a man next to two women.
The women are not the same.
The man is me, years apart.
Who are the women?
What stories and tales do those pictures tell?

This is what life is about:
Little pieces of nothing.

When is it the right time
To open the closet door
To look in on a journey paused
To risk the truth and find
Boxes taped up with angry haste
Adventures stifled within four walls

When is the right time
To sit with the papers, the moments, the times
To make the decisions
To be brave in the face of pain and find
Cherished moments stuffed haphazardly away
Flashes of beauty smothered by a storm

When is the right time
To laugh, to cry, to hate, to mourn
To acknowledge the truth
To risk the unpredictable path that leads to
A heart ready, open for healing
And a closet - with room for someone else

When I can't sleep at night

as I lay and stare

at the empty side of my bed

and wonder about the things

I would tell you

if you were right beside me