I sit in her shadow. She is here still, somewhere, in this room, the room where she put down her words, week after week, poem after poem
She used to sit in this very spot, at the end of the couch, the place I nestled so easily into, because it felt warm and seemed to invite me
I sat and wrote, moving ever so carefully, so my words might find their own space to settle, while allowing hers to remain. Her death opened up a space in the writing group, a space I filled, knowing full well I was walking into someone else’s shadow
Stepping into the space newly opened by the clean brushstroke of death, I swear I felt her shadow shift to one side, sit here it whispered, patting down the pillows, I’ve been keeping it warm just for you.