When Pain Walked In Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

I remember the day Pain came home
sat in the cushion chair,
looked me in the eye and said,
"I am here."

I had no reply,
only a house emptied of laughter.

I returned from work
to find my wife gone,
our life folded into absence—
every possession,
down to the last small thing,
and my children carried away with her.

The rooms remained.
Home did not.

Their cups were gone from the table.
Their little shoes no longer waited by the door.
Even the walls seemed to have forgotten
the sound of their names.

That evening, I learned
a man can keep his roof
and still become homeless.

Pain sat beside me.
Absence took the chair
where my children had been.

And I understood:

some griefs leave no scar to touch;
they leave you listening in the dark
for footsteps you know
will not come home.