Courtney Botteron The House without You

When I think of my daughter, I can still feel her hand in mine as I read to her in the canopy bed I bought for her, which may have been more for the poor child who still resided inside me. What gratitude I feel towards her because of this child that she’s brought into my life, so much gratitude for those moments in my memory, Jennifer with her gorgeous hair freshly washed, smelling of vanilla shampoo, the two of us, close under the lamp light, while I read to her and I want those memories to be as vivid for her, as I hope Indigo willrememberJennifer‘s voice readingto her, Jennifer’s arms around her shoulders, her hands stroking her hair.

Courtney Botteron

The House without You

The day you moved out, rain beat on our thin roof like the crinkling of aluminum foil.

I walked outside and thunder rolled across the sky. The scent of cut grass lingered.

You told me once a story about the steady downpour on your wedding day.

I painted a picture and wrote “I love you” on a piece of paper and hid it in your suitcase foryou to findafteryou were gone.

Two weekends later, the picture was taped outside your door of your temporary home.

The house without you was a fridge with no seltzer water a table with empty plates.