An Empty Space Beside Me
An empty space
There is an empty space that walks
Beside me: a shimmering in the
Fabric of the air.
No boundaries define this space
Until memories slip in, to give
Form, voice, palpable
Presence.
Who might this person be who
Is there, yet a phantom, transparent
Expression of my past?
My Mother walks there, stiff jointed
With age, gruff voiced and grey
Haired, yet bringing a smile to my
Lips, and joy.
Then my Father, a pigeon pair we,
In gait and voice; anxious, articulate,
Pedantic, perfectionist. Dead too
Young.
Memory fills the space with the
Nearness of love, the fleeting
Images of childhood, or raw
Emotion of adolescence.
As I walk the street, the empty
Space becomes the passing
Parade of my life, a picture book
Of memories.
It is the gallery of my grieving
Now laid to rest, each passing
Accepted.
Save you; who is a hundred
Phantoms, each one a caricature
Of hope, of despair, of perplexed
Grief. You are the empty space
That walks beside me, a shimmering
In the fabric of the air.
Copyright © Edward Clapham | Year Posted 2018
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