Empty except

by Martha Lovett Cullen 

I am back in the room she grew up in.  

the same small space that hasn’t changed since the days 

she fit beneath the notches on the doorframe.  

hiding coins under jammy carpets and collating lilac walls with 

crayon masterpieces, ceilings high enough to house her tiny 

bodys floating daydreams, stretching legs that never seemed to 

grow fast enough to feel taller. 

the room is smaller now.  

the walls are empty grey,  

and the floorboards don’t creak 

with familiar footprints like before.  

I am closer to the ceiling  

there is less space for secrets and daydreams between us.  

but she still keeps me company in the quiet.  

still reaches up,  

with arms wide open,  

welcoming the good that has yet to greet us.