Every Map Folded and Unfolded

poem

Photo by Ioann-Mark Kuznietsov on Unsplash

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How odd those times
when your spouse
and children are away

and you're the only one
in the house for three
or four days. You enjoy

the solitude for a while—
you don't wear pants—
and you rough-draft odes

to the quiet. But, soon,
one thousand home movies
begin to play themselves

on every viewable surface
and it's that one short
film playing on the water

pitcher that most draws
your eyes. It's you touring
the house for the first

time. You were alone.
Your spouse was busy
elsewhere that day

but still wanted you
to tour houses because
houses don't get sold

to lazy hunters. As soon
as you stepped through
the front door, you knew

this house was the one.
You're not a mystical
person but the house

was conscious. The lumber
of the walls and floors
and ceilings welcomed you

like the trees they used to be.
And so this house has been
your family's stand of pine

for three decades. And now,
a few days after your spouse
and kids left on their trip,

you're lonesome and begin
to pace—your soul begins
to pace—and you keep pacing

and pacing for another day
or three—until you hear
your spouse's car pull into

the driveway and you rush
outside in your bare feet
to greet them and they,

road weary and dizzy
on gas station snacks, 
walk inside and lie down

on the various sofas.
They're too tired to talk
but this silence

is different. Ah, yes,
this silence is meditative.
This silence is a prayer

to thank God for the loved
ones who were gone
but then reappeared.