The Empty Cup

Someone at work asked me what love is. I just shrugged. I don't think it's a word you can say out loud. It's a thing you do. Or a thing that's missing.

For me, love is the coffee pot in the morning. I still fill it to the line for two people. Your cup is still next to the sink. Clean and upside down. I make the coffee. I pour my cup. Then I stand there and look at yours. Sometimes I think about pouring it for you anyway. Just to see it sit on the counter. But I don't. It would get cold.

Love is your toothbrush. It’s the bright green one next to my blue one. It’s silly to keep it there. But I can't move it. It feels like if I move it, you’ll really be gone.

Love is the way I drive home a different way now. I used to take the street past the park. You liked to see the dogs playing. Now I don't want to see them. It just makes me think of you.

It's the empty space on the couch. It's the quiet when I'm eating dinner. I can hear myself chew. I never heard that before. I hate it.

So I guess love is just noticing all the things that are gone. It's a house full of ghosts that only I can see. It’s a list of things I miss. And it’s the hope, that small, stupid hope, that one day I’ll come home and the light will be on. That you’ll be there. That is love, I think. Just hoping.