Farewell, futon

I've got a bunch of entries in drafts right now, and I should work on those, but I had to write first about my futon, which I sold yesterday and watched depart from my home today. It's been ten minutes since the futon left the apartment, and the literal and psychological void is vast. I can do cartwheels in the living room now, if I wanted. If I could. I should be happy that it's sold and taken care of, but I can still remember clearly the hours I spent putting it together by myself. It was the night of the first Mark Webster reading in 2003, and I skipped the post-reading party because I was excited to work on the futon immediately. Perhaps it's the indication of the two years that have passed and the changes that bugs me. It's the same feeling I had when I looked at my empty desk during my last few days at Cambridge University Press. The space is waiting to be filled again, but not by me.