God has moved from this space,
reads the sign on the rustic metal door
of this suburban apartment.

A moth crawls the door frame lazily.
A summer heatwave is in the air,
you can smell it.

The sound of the radio echoes from the adjacent wall.

Life continues in the complex.

I had just taken the stairs to the third floor, on my way up to the seventh.

Catching my breath, I look at the sign and wonder.
God has moved from this space.
God has moved through this space.

I wonder what contents the apartment might still hold;
a frame left behind, a picture mayhaps,
that escaped the notice of the moving tenant.
Or did God clear up the space entirely before leaving,

leaving no trace that this space was inhabited,
the dust settled on the floor and surfaces speaks of absence.

A space where God does not exist.
Does God visit this space still,
I would not know;
I carry my home on my back.
Home is carried upon my body.
Home is my body.

What miracles did God work from this suburban apartment?
Did Moses take off his shoes while entering this one bedroom, studio apartment?
I wonder, and I say, I would not know.

I lazily look at the staircase, my way forward.
I ascend.