Empty house

I woke up early this morning,
automatically walking quietly down the hall
in case I wake him.

Then I remembered.

He's not there.

It's a strange feeling,
sort of like ghosts,
but at the same time
not.

He is not gone,
just in a different place.
And I am happy for him.

We had always wondered,
He and I,
if independence was even conceivable,

and now he is transitioning,
learning to be that person--
independent, self-resourceful, and free--
that he's always wanted to be.

That leaves me with an empty house.

I had been warned:
You'll be lonely,
You'll hate it.
You'll have to get used to it.

None of this is true,
at least not yet.

I enjoy solitude,
and I think that boredom,
for me,
is simply not an option.

There are so many things to do--
Art, violin, guitar, voice
Writing

How  could I be bored?

Lonely?
Maybe,
but that's why there is Skype
and Facebook
and the phone.

So I accept this empty house,
and I even accept that the phrase is not true.

This house is not empty.
It is full.
Of me.