Vacancy

The ex-roommate has found himself a little house of his own, and I told him there's no rush getting his stuff moved out of here.  So all week, he's been coming back taking a carload or two a day.  Last night he called to say he had gotten his bed set up and was sleeping in the new place for the first time.

It's an odd feeling here.  Every day I come home and find some familiar something gone, disappeared.  A table.  A chair.  A pair of curtains.  A dishcloth.  A bath mat.  A picture.  A plant.  A mixer.  A toaster.  Magnets off the refrigerator door.  The little homey touches that you take for granted, don't really miss until they are gone.

It's all for the best.  Trust me.  Yet when someone moves out of your life, you can't help being struck by the blank spot they leave behind on the bare walls of memory.