No, no

Now that, you, little guy, have gone with your parents to your home far away, an active, vivid presence is suddenly no longer here, and not going to be here: no morning wakings and picture book readings, no sounds of footsteps coming or going, no questions or giggles or protests somewhere in the house, no wrestlings, no walks holding hands, no funny run to laugh at, no rolling giggling on the ground, no game invention, no calling out of my grandfather name, no hugs, no little muscular body to squeeze and soft cheek to kiss, no cracking the nighttime door to peek at the sleeping form under the blankets lying so sweetly still.

Instead there's a shelf of books, a box of toys, a stroller, a crib. All these things seem a little lost as if looking around for you who would put them to use them. They've felt your hand, borne your weight, but now nobody demands them to be anything particular.

The parts of me that have been secondary for this week, the reading, writing, thinking, even running, now can breathe fully, now that you're in Chicago at this moment. But I feel deflated, flabby. It's as if the way I've been living with you has been too big for me. I'll have to grow into my life again.