The jewelry had been sorted; the furniture, given away. Stripped of all that had once made it home, the house was a skeleton. There was too much space in its ribcage, and without a heart, it was cold. The heart had stopped beating four days before.
There was so much space in the living room, so much room for possibility. The furniture still needed sorting, and the heating bill hadn’t yet been paid, but the expecting mother didn’t mind. She could already see herself at the fireplace, finding warmth and singing lullabies to the son she had yet to meet. She already loved him.
The son scanned the structure, wanting to believe that life still lingered in some crevice in the wall. It didn’t, of course. Memories clung to him like cobwebs. Before he saw them, he felt them; before he noticed, they were gone: a wisp of smoke, the fading hum of his mother’s song. His memories tied him to the house, but only weakly—they, too, let go.
The expecting mother felt drawn to the house. With one hand, she traced the walls; with the other, she led her husband forward. As she roamed, her heart planted seeds in every crevice in the walls.
The son turned slowly, giving the house one last opportunity to speak, to hold him there. The clomp of his shoes felt clinical on the tile floor. He sighed. “I think we’re good now!” he called to the movers outside.
“We’re all good now,” the expecting father said. “This place is ours.” “Really?” his wife asked. “Yes, really. Now go explore! I have a surprise to plan.”
The son closed the door behind him to the final click of his childhood. It echoed. He had a funeral to plan.
Be First to Comment