All Thirty

I taped it crooked to the refrigerator.

Printed, white, the month laid out—

thirty squares, and I was going to

fill them in. That was four days ago.

I've walked past it every morning.

Coffee. Toast. The tape already

peeling at one corner, the calendar

tilting toward the floor.

Eighteen months of someone else's schedule

in my handwriting. The appointments,

the pickups, the coverage—

all of it, suddenly

done.

And now this.

Thirty rooms

nobody's in.

I thought I'd feel relieved.

I thought I'd feel.