The space you used to fill crowds me with

its silence.  The rooms, so full of who you were,

so empty without you.  I can’t bring myself

to clear them.  Your things are objects now,

to be taken to charity shops where they’ll sit

anonymously on shelves, to be looked at by strangers,

no more wrapped in tender memories.   

Can I sit in your home a little longer

before it becomes just a house?

Can I look at the ornaments you

picked out and feel that you’re still here

before the clearing out of your life for good?