All water flows toward loneliness. Eduardo C. Corral

What is it about death that rendered my solitude into loneliness?
It wasn’t that I had never known the silence of seclusion.
Growing up an only child, I was my own best company.
Hosting stuffed animal tea parties, spinning stories in my head,
I grew comfortable with the quiet, even came to crave it.
I often swam alone, under watchful supervision, in the white-plaster pool
taking up the bulk of the small backyard behind my childhood home.
Diving for rocks, floating on a rainbow-colored raft,
I learned the way water holds you, no matter what.

When my first-born left for college, the stillness was significant,
yet I only needed to think of him to feel his presence in the world.
Just a text away, he called frequently. A cheerful ‘Hi, Mom!’
before launching into stories about his joyful learning.

After he died, his absence became too heavy to carry.
A haunting drought of noise.
No more splashing in the shower, no more clatter in the hall.
Never again would “I love you mom … so much”
come flowing down the stairs.

Now, when loneliness begins to drown me, I flee
to search for the places outdoors where my son’s spirit remains.
Traversing the horse trails by the lake
where no one can see my invisible boy,
walking with me as he did so often.
His hand in mine, his shoulder brushing mine,
his voice still ringing in my ear.