The Visit

It came in through the side door.

No one noticed.

The dog raised its head, then slept again.

At first, it only moved the furniture.

Shifted the rug an inch,

closed the blinds a little earlier.

Later, it sat at the table,

its hands folded.

It watched me

spread butter on cold toast.

It waited until I swallowed.

I asked it:

What are you?

It didn’t answer.

Only turned its gaze toward the window,

where nothing was moving—

not even the wind.

When I slept,

it slept beside me,

its breath heavy

as if it had been running.

Once, I thought I saw my mother

in the hallway mirror.

But it was only the shape of grief

worn into the glass.

There are days now

I almost miss it.

Not because I loved it—

but because I learned to speak

in its language.

And silence feels like betrayal.