THE EMPTY ROOM

You were no different
from anyone else
leaving home at eighteen;
your bag was small,
and there was much
you could not take.
The small statue
of the Virgin Mary
for instance, a gift
accepted carelessly on some
long forgotten feast day
would be left behind.
Too superstitious to
throw her away,
you relegated her to
a spot on the bureau
where she presided over
a closet full of dated clothes,
the bed you slept in
for a few restless summers
then abandoned for good.

Our Lady of Sorrows.
Our Lady of Stillness.
Our Lady of the Empty Room.

It is a lifetime before
you think of her again,
dream the weight
of that statue in your hand,
the calm that flowed
from her open stance.
By then your room
has been painted clean
a dozen times; the statue
has gone the way of all
we think we own.
But in your best moments,
you stop flailing
and open your arms
like she did.
In your best moments,
you dream you have become her:

You are the waiting.
You are the stillness.
You are the empty room.

.