Missing Mug

Months later, the house still

smells of lemon cleaner and something else

I can't quite place, but it isn't him.

I walked into the kitchen,

half-awake, autopilot reaching

for the high shelf, his spot.

The chipped blue mug,

the one he'd used every morning,

the glaze worn thin near the rim.

It wasn't there.

Just the empty space,

a stark, clean rectangle

on the dusty wood.

And that's when it hit,

not a wave, but a sharp, cold point

right in the chest.

Not the funeral, not the speeches,

not even the first quiet days.

Just that goddamn empty spot,

a small thing, but

the whole world missing from it.