This house feels empty though there are three of us here. Hollow, although I know you will be home soon. Ridiculously too large, yet knowing College Girl will return in a whirlwind a month before summer, and College Son too, and someday with that special one, and later bringing fat babies, mouthy, active children, baggage, far too many shoes, bikes, pillows, cell phone chargers, cars, diapers, personal devises everywhere, making the misery of crowding divine.
But in the mean time, come home and use up some space with your giant you, feet tromping on the stair up to the door, shrieks of little scurrying hiders, hinges noisily do their job as here you are, parking size 13 shoes along the wall, a voice with only two volumes -off and on – belting out “Hummm, I wonder where my burritos are? I’m hungry for a bean burrito!” More hidden squeals.. one from under the entry bench, across the room tiny legs hardly seen beneath hanging heavy coats.
When you are here, giant house doesn’t feel so empty. Hurry home then, will you, until once again I’m use to two beds, two chairs, two kids and all their giant collection of clothes and things and rare wonderful selves gone. Gone to work hard at the job of filling the lonely, hollow, empty earth with good.
Yours in empty and in maximum occupancy,