The House is so quiet

There's a mess in your bedroom.

Discarded packaging, stray lego,

Tissue paper covered in flowers and hearts drawn in bright, simple texta.

Against the wall, a beautifully detailed Fairy Door sits among the wreckage of it's creation.

Creative wreckage is a bit of a theme.

The kitchen looks like a cyclone went through it,

While spontaneously producing a tin full of chocolate chip cookies.

The lounge is full of paper and pencils.

The bathroom is still littered with face paints I don't want to clean up.

A few hours ago you came laughing and squealing out of there,

Your face covered in red and purple.

I thought you were a demon.

"No, Bubba, I'm a DRAGON girl!"

As soon as you said it I could see it.

I should have known,

You have the courage, fire and sheer reckless joy of one.

All weekend the house rang of it - that other-worldly glee.

Thuds on the wall as you practised hand-stands,

Cackles, pranks and wild stories as you played with your friends,

Plans and daydreams discussed over meals.

Even the quiet, hesitant staccato of you practising your reading,

And the soft snuffles as you drifted to sleep

Filled the house with a warm sense of purpose.

I love my time with you Sweetheart.

Every moment of your crazy, caring, loving, exuberant self.

Whole weekends when, with me, you can just be you.

When you're allowed off your meds and your mind runs wild,

Like a puppy off its leash.

But they end, don't they.

And you have to go.

Now Larry the Crawling Halloween Mummy lies motionless in the foyer.

He is sound activated after all.

And there's none of that in the house.

Not now.

And into that sudden, gaping absence, Grief pours with insidious enthusiasm.

Accusatory and acidic, He pulls open wounds just beginning to heal from the last time.

He eats away at the echoes of laughing, running and playing

Just as fast as He can.

Spiteful little shit.

So.

I will sit here in my car, in the garage thank you very much.

Where I can play Solitaire on my phone,

And, through the rear-view mirror, still see the "I Love U" you wrote in the dust on the back window.

Weeks ago.

Can't bring myself to wash that off.

I don't want to go inside.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not until you come back.

There's no point really.

The house is so quiet.