It happens everyday, after the work day ends, and I eagerly grab my keys to go. I hope in the mommy-van and pull out of the parking garage. At about the same spot – the spot where I would reach for my phone, call to compare notes on our days, and let him know that I am on my way home – the emptiness makes itself known.
There all day, but hidden, it i s now so visible in the evening light. As I drive, I give in to it. I let it take over. I sometimes even put on the music that reminds me of him, and of us.
I make the final stop at the stop-sign and turn onto my street. I see his truck in the driveway and remember that it doesn’t mean that he is home. Nope. No matter how much I dream it, he isn’t going to come home. The emptiness fills the house too.
It’s everywhere. It’s in the house, at the baseball games, in my heart, and on the kids’ faces. The emptiness is not going anywhere, and time is not going to make it any less. I suppose that we will just get better at filling the gaps with other stuff.