Empty

I always hated the word “empty.” I would be sitting at a restaurant drinking, and I would stop.

“Don’t drink it all.”

My brain said.

“Or it will be empty.”

 

There is no such thing as empty. An empty glass is full of atoms, and memories. Maybe a boy with curious green eyes drank out of the cup, three days before you.

Perhaps a famous president touched the dusty china in your grandmother’s cabinets.

Yet nothing is empty.

Nothing.

 

A room cannot be empty because it is always full.

The walls show images in wallpaper and paint if you look close enough.

A red stain near the top trim tells of a sleepover full of giggles, secrets, and red nail polish.

Wallpaper is slightly more blue in one spot, from a never-admitted paint accident.

A room is never empty, as long as the walls speak.

And a room is never empty as long as the floor can tell the tale of footprints and more

Giggly summer feet from a sprinkler

Graceful dancing feet, as a big night approaches.

And floor-angels for the giddy nights of cloud nine happiness.

A room can never be empty.

 

A closet can never be full, or empty, even when everything physical is gone or stuffed to the ceiling.

Nothing can ever be empty, as long as emotions, memories, music, and atoms exist.

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