Back in our house, I feel him.
He is here but not quite.
Just like I am here but not quite.
His cat welcomes us warmly and then ….. looks for him.

The badminton racket stands in the corner.
Unstrung.
Awaiting its turn.
It knows it’s on his ‘to do’ list.
His walking shoes lament the unwalked miles.
His mirror, deeply disappointed to see my face.
His laptop is in silent isolation.
The bottle-opener on his key-ring feels redundant.
The number-lock chain on his bike will not be unlocked. Ever.
His glasses mourn the life unseen.
The dental floss has no smile to add to.

The windows in his room await his breath.
His breaths sit stacked up in a corner, covered in dust.
The sheesha is now only for decoration.
In the bin under his table lies a crumpled heap of dreams.
I look closely. Some of them are mine.

The worn cricket bat looks dejected.
It has no hope for the future.
His cymbals haven’t left their black body-bags in months!
His speakers have been in deep silence since he left.

This is home. Sweet home.