My echoing footsteps call out to you,
the too loud tapping makes weary wooden boards sigh.
Wide empty walls are pockmarked with putty holes
where pictures of us used to hang.
The beige carpet is flattened where our bed stood,
and the empty closet gapes in disbelief.
I linger longest in the kitchen:
phantom smells of chocolate and bleach
come from cabinets that hang open in defeat.
So far she’s erased every line.
She’s trying to loosen her soul
by unwinding the cords that bind her,
but as it pulls away it tangles.
They say time will smooth the strings
but she doesn’t want to lose the picture
of her father that’s in her mind—the only thing
she has left.
So, she unburdens, line by line,
writing words and
erasing them to join him,
until she is left with a snub pencil,
eraser worn to a nub, and a
piece of paper, torn and smudged, that is still
Amanda England is an English major in college. Her writing has appeared in The Orange Room Review, The Legendary, The New Plains Review, The Foundling Review, and Heavy Hands Ink. Read more about her at http://lazywritersguidetoprocrastination.blogspot.com/.
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