empty rooms

He stopped at his open bedroom door.  Flung back  against the wall, the gaping threshold made the area seem immense, never-ending corners stretching across the old, wooden floorboards.  Corrugated cardboard boxes piled high in the corner of the room signaled the end of one lifetime or so it seemed.  One chapter, one long, arduous chapter was shriveling to an end.  He gave away most of the furniture, even his Aunt Millie’s Victorian cherry end table, ornately hand-carved in flowing flowers and vines.  And oh-so-many clothes!  Dashing linen suits, Italian butter-leather shoes, and his prized light gray, wide-brimmed Stetson that made him feel like a bit like a blend of Al Pacino and SuperFly!  Nothing seemed to hold the value, the fascination, the desire those things held for him in his past.  Now, very little mattered.  He listened to his whispered, rhythmic breathing.  He felt the empty space of his bedroom suffocate him.  A deep breath whisked inside his rising chest.  Tomorrow nothing would be the same.  As he turned to leave the room, a glimpse of himself as a child racing past the window flashed while tears rose in his eyes.  And as he walked from the room into the empty corridor, a haze materialized into a huddled form, old and still.  Again, it was he – where he might be in the not-so-distant future – fear gripped his breath, his heart faltered, his mind raced, projecting, imagining.  The emptiness of his bedroom radiated into his eyes, his throat, the pit of his stomach.  His mind searched among rapid-fire questions and potential answers popping like overblown bubbles in the wind.  His mind screamed.  His eyes widened their gaze.  A silent voice tore at his soul.  “How can I keep living and refill all my empty rooms?”Image


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