Weekend Mornings

Weekend mornings use to sound like Beethoven and Vivaldi, your cleaning or riffing on the piano, newspaper pages turning, you and Mom carrying on conversations from two different rooms.

Weekend mornings use to smell like coffee and bacon cooking, Windex or Wood For Good used to clean the hardwood floor and kitchen table.

Weekend mornings use to feel tired, like I woke up before I wanted then energized at the thought of fresh coffee; loved from a “good morning” hug from Mom then bothered from the chores you told me I needed to do.

The morning after you died, there was only silence.

No riffing on the piano, no fresh coffee, no Vivaldi, no chores to be told to do; only an overwhelming feeling of emptiness, a complete darkness, an utter loneliness.