Memories of the Past
I stood in an empty room that was once my own, watching as the bits and pieces of my life were packed away into the back of a moving truck. All our furniture was already loaded, only the boxes filled with our belongings remained. I watched them. Watched their faces as they made their way to and from our house. The expressions I observed were relatively the same - tired, weary - though none of them looked the least bit saddened. Did they not realize that my life was being destroyed with each box - no, with each step - that they took? Did they not understand the reason for our leaving this place, the one that had been my home for seventeen years now? If they did feel anything, they sure did a damned good job at concealing it.
I pressed my head against the cold glass, letting the window support my weight. A exhaled. Fog spread. My blood felt both boiled and chilled at the same time, like my current mood. I hated my mother for making us - me - leave everything behind, and at the same time, I understood why she was doing this. We both lost him. We both saw him set into the freshly dug pit and then blanketed with earth and grass. We both called him a special name. Father. Husband. Daddy. Honey. I totally understood, too, that this place had contained all the memories of him and his time with us. The reminders were the same for both of us, as was the pain.
Yet, at the same time, the memories brought warmth to my sore heart. Here, I would never be able to forget him, each room tied to our once whole family. His cologne still permeated the air. The scratches on the floor from where he slid his reading chair back. His-
A knock sounded behind me, tearing me from my thoughts. Knuckles against the wooden door frame. I saw her reflection in the window. I knew why she'd come.
The moving men were closing up the back of the truck.
"You ready to go, hon?" she asked, her voice soft and laced with sadness.
The movers climbed into the truck.
I sighed, heavy, resigned. Nodded. "Yeah. I'm ready."
I followed Mother through the house, out the door, across the yard, and into our car, counting the steps the entire way, a meaningless number. She turned the key and the small four-door rumbled to life. Three clicks and it was in gear. Drive. We pulled out onto the street.
I took one last look and then left everything behind...
...and cried the whole time.