Missing Object

K. Mehta

Something is snuggling with the dust bunnies again–

The space behind the dresser is alive with movement.

I know movement–

The chorus of the car keys, the wheels massaging the road, gravel unfurling before us

like knots, misplaced muscles sliding back into place.

We rip down the curves of the road, the sky burning with a dark ripening.

It swallows itself, stars emerging like castaway seeds.

Somehow, we’ve boiled it down to a science–

My brother’s legs slung around the passenger seat,

a scuffed pair of gold bands clenching my mother’s wrist,

the windows lowered, our mouths open to the breeze.

We feed on it–

That scent of spice in the air,

the flurry of golden leaves whirling in the car’s wake,

the boundless blue horizon,

stretching itself further and further for us.

Nobody listens to the boxes rattling in the trunk,

each a little more empty than the last time.

What remains mourns the newly hollow spaces with a clattering refrain,

before settling, before growing just a bit more to silence themselves.

It’s everywhere–

The gap on the mantelpiece,

the naked hangars,

that piece of china missing from the cupboard.

Somehow, we evade it–

Hopping in the car and speeding away from–

The cracks between the couch cushions,

the corners of the closet,

the dark space behind the dresser.

But it gets a little harder each time too–

As if we can’t make it as far away,

as if we’re the ones falling a little further into the abyss of forgottenness.

Someone is snuggling with the dust bunnies.