Quiet

The door clicked shut. I stood awhile,
not knowing what to do.
The morning stretched across the floor
every room seemed somehow new.

Your breakfast bowl was in the sink,
your fingerprints on the glass,
a wooden soldier guards the stairs
though no footsteps now charge past.

I heard the clock above the door.
Its tick was far too proud.
The boiler clicked. A neighbour coughed.
Why did silence sound so loud?

I made some tea, then let it cool,
wandered through quiet rooms.
Your crayons scattered on the floor,
red suns and improbable moons.

I found your rabbit on the chair,
one ear worn thin with love.
I nearly called to ask you why
you'd left him on his own.

The house had always wanted peace.
I'd wished for half an hour or two.
Now silence sat beside me here
bereft and missing you.

I wondered if you'd eaten yet,
did someone help you with your coat?
Will you miss me as I do you,
please make a friend or two.

Ridiculous. I know you will.
You barely looked at me goodbye.
You'd seen the doorway opening;
I'd stood behind and watched you fly.

So this, it seems, is what I get,
small thing you leave with me:
a quiet house, an empty chair,
I never really wanted to be free.

I check the clock. It's barely ten.
This really isn’t cool.
Just take a breath and understand
It’s your first day at school.