Because that's how it goes 

Write a brief short story

Despite the early hour and the carpet covering each step, I heard your footsteps on the staircase. You have this habit of rushing, as if time were running out. You could have waited for me to kiss you. It wouldn't have made you late, and my loneliness would have wavered briefly.

From my bed, I slip on my fuzzy socks and slide toward the window. With a light touch, I draw back a corner of the opaque curtain and catch a glimpse of you on the opposite sidewalk. You've already crossed. With my eyes, I follow your rhythmic steps, your carefree youth skirting the bushes and disappearing without a glance toward me. Like those before you. Because that's how it goes. Children leave the nest. Cats roam.

So I tackle forgetfulness. With a skilled caress, I smooth the sheet and fold the flowery duvet into two equal halves. Edges against edges. I take care to give the pillow a human shape and gather the few clothes that every evening I purposely scatter on the floor. When the body bends, stretches, tenses, I forget that the longing only takes a night's pause.

Wrapped in silence, I descend the stairs and turn on the coffee machine. I watch the drops hesitate, lingering for a moment before falling. When one hesitates a bit too much, the next one precipitates its fall with indifference, inexorably. It's the natural course of things. Despite the void, one must live. As if these little daily nothings could fill the void. As if absence didn't matter.

But how do I tell you? The truth. A son's departure is like a little death. A heart's hibernation. Of course, it still beats. It can even race. Maybe explode! It's for these rare moments, in fact, that it hasn't died the great death yet. But the emptiness? What to do with the emptiness? I admit, it's a cumbersome emptiness for which there's no bandage big enough.