The drawer opens. A hand searches as it did years ago, when a photograph rested at the edge of a mirror. Always there, until one day, it wasn’t. It must have slipped, fallen behind the dresser, or perhaps ended up in a forgotten box. At first, its absence went unnoticed. Only later, when fingers reached for it, did something feel amiss. A second search, slower this time. Still nothing. There are others. Another photograph will do. Yet, something lingers.
The Weight of What Isn’t There
Some things quietly fade—a name, a photograph, a voice once close, now distant. Many absences go unnoticed. A hand reaches for what was, only to find the space it once filled.
It is not just the spoon that once stirred coffee, now gone. Like the photograph, once resting at the edge of the mirror, always in place—until it slips away.
Some losses arrive sharp and sudden: a farewell at the door, a train pulling away, an empty chair at the table. These absences have names and carry rituals, final goodbyes that echo long after they have passed. Some moments linger long after they’ve gone. The reminders stay, hard to forget.
Others slip away unnoticed, their absence felt only later No sound, no final touch—just a gradual unraveling. A childhood home, now in someone else’s care, its floors creaking under unfamiliar steps.
A friendship, once vibrant, now stretches thin. It fades like a photograph left in the sun too long, its edges curling until it’s no longer recognizable. The moment of change is elusive—hard to pinpoint, yet undeniable: one day, it’s simply gone.
What the Silence Holds
The missing object carries echoes of a life once lived, its absence a quiet reminder of what’s no longer there. A spoon that once clinked against a coffee mug in the quiet of morning, stirred soup as conversation filled the air, and rested between hands during late-night confessions.
It isn’t about the spoon. It never was. The drawer closes, and a fork is taken instead—a quiet substitution, but it never fills the same space. The rhythm of the day continues, steady and unchanged.
For a moment, something lingers—not in the absence itself, but in the memory of what once was. The weight of the photograph once resting at the edge of the mirror, the spoon that stirred more than just coffee, the quiet comfort of what had always been there.
It cannot be fixed, only felt—the echo of what once was, still present.
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