I Have Written a Short Story
I lock the back door, the cold metal of the doorknob burning strangely in my hand. The steps creak as I descend and a nail catches the hem of my pants. I grip the wooden rail to shake it loose and a splinter lodges in my finger. I curse the old thing, as this is not the first time it stung me. I should have sanded the railings long ago, before it had the chance to make its mark. Somewhere, the first bird of the morning takes up the call. My eyes search the trees, looking for the bird that somehow has forgotten the time. Dawn is not yet upon the earth, the sun will slumber for at least two more hours, and yet this brazen thing is begging it forth. The cicadas are loud this morning, I notice as my feet hit the wobbly stones that mark the path out into the garden.
I hold my head up as I make the long walk through the tall grass. The smells of the morning fill my nose and for the moment, the world is all darkness and dew. I fight the urge to look over my shoulder at the house. The lights are still on, I know they are. I should have turned them off when I left, but something in me wouldn’t allow me to. To turn off the lights would be to admit defeat.
The gate opens soundlessly and remains defiantly silent as it closes behind me. The oiled hinges scream their quiet protest and I ignore them. The grass claws at my legs, their pleas strangely chill in the predawn. I should have mowed it. A stray wind blows up from the south and instinctively, I turn my head. My eyes catch the lights of my home. No, it isn’t my home, not anymore. The lights laugh at me from the glaring windowpanes, throwing their assured light into the garden behind me. I should have closed the blinds.
I stare for a long moment, losing track of time as I take in every inch of chipped paint and rusting fittings of the house. I should have painted it, or at least fixed the back door. Even so, the house has character, like old houses often do. The chipped paint holds the light of countless moon-filled nights, and the iron fittings show evidence of a thousand rainy days. The same rain that made the orange rust also filled the ground around the house with life, giving it a peculiar solidarity.
It looks strange, all lit and empty and seems to sigh as the wind rushes around it. But it isn’t empty, I know that. It holds the ghosts and memories of almost four years in its walls. The empty picture frames still remember the people who used to inhabit them, and the floors remember the sound of work boots after a long day. I’m sure the clock on the wall is ticking out the same rhythm it always has, like a heartbeat. The pipes are probably gurgling and the walls are settling around this new state of being; empty.
But it won’t be empty for long. The family who now owns it will fill the halls with laughter and love. In the winter, the hearth will be warm and the in the summer they’ll serve iced tea. The house will learn their secrets, as it did mine and for a time, it will be almost a living thing. But for now, it rests vacant.
I turn my back to the house and finish the small journey to my car. I swing the door open and glance to make sure my bags are in the back seat. They are. I slide into the seat, a strange hunger settling into the far reaches of my mind. It has been a while since I drove any farther than the edge of town. I’ve become too complacent here, and it’s high time I was on the move again. My wandering blood calls for long stretches of lonely highway. I have not decided where I’m going yet, but I know I’ll go through the mountains. It will be odd to be alone again after so long, but perhaps it is just what I need.
I start the engine and find that my eyes are burning with moisture. I hold them back though, determined to leave this place shameless. I push the car into gear and slowly pull out onto the driveway. It’s bumpy, as dirt roads often are, but eventually I find my way to the small highway that runs out front of the property. The tires sound like a prayer as they turn on asphalt and I turn towards the west. Yes, I think I’ll go west.
I drive and try to put that house from my mind. I would have stayed. I know that as I leave forever. If only he would have asked me, I would have stayed.
I hold my head up as I make the long walk through the tall grass. The smells of the morning fill my nose and for the moment, the world is all darkness and dew. I fight the urge to look over my shoulder at the house. The lights are still on, I know they are. I should have turned them off when I left, but something in me wouldn’t allow me to. To turn off the lights would be to admit defeat.
The gate opens soundlessly and remains defiantly silent as it closes behind me. The oiled hinges scream their quiet protest and I ignore them. The grass claws at my legs, their pleas strangely chill in the predawn. I should have mowed it. A stray wind blows up from the south and instinctively, I turn my head. My eyes catch the lights of my home. No, it isn’t my home, not anymore. The lights laugh at me from the glaring windowpanes, throwing their assured light into the garden behind me. I should have closed the blinds.
I stare for a long moment, losing track of time as I take in every inch of chipped paint and rusting fittings of the house. I should have painted it, or at least fixed the back door. Even so, the house has character, like old houses often do. The chipped paint holds the light of countless moon-filled nights, and the iron fittings show evidence of a thousand rainy days. The same rain that made the orange rust also filled the ground around the house with life, giving it a peculiar solidarity.
It looks strange, all lit and empty and seems to sigh as the wind rushes around it. But it isn’t empty, I know that. It holds the ghosts and memories of almost four years in its walls. The empty picture frames still remember the people who used to inhabit them, and the floors remember the sound of work boots after a long day. I’m sure the clock on the wall is ticking out the same rhythm it always has, like a heartbeat. The pipes are probably gurgling and the walls are settling around this new state of being; empty.
But it won’t be empty for long. The family who now owns it will fill the halls with laughter and love. In the winter, the hearth will be warm and the in the summer they’ll serve iced tea. The house will learn their secrets, as it did mine and for a time, it will be almost a living thing. But for now, it rests vacant.
I turn my back to the house and finish the small journey to my car. I swing the door open and glance to make sure my bags are in the back seat. They are. I slide into the seat, a strange hunger settling into the far reaches of my mind. It has been a while since I drove any farther than the edge of town. I’ve become too complacent here, and it’s high time I was on the move again. My wandering blood calls for long stretches of lonely highway. I have not decided where I’m going yet, but I know I’ll go through the mountains. It will be odd to be alone again after so long, but perhaps it is just what I need.
I start the engine and find that my eyes are burning with moisture. I hold them back though, determined to leave this place shameless. I push the car into gear and slowly pull out onto the driveway. It’s bumpy, as dirt roads often are, but eventually I find my way to the small highway that runs out front of the property. The tires sound like a prayer as they turn on asphalt and I turn towards the west. Yes, I think I’ll go west.
I drive and try to put that house from my mind. I would have stayed. I know that as I leave forever. If only he would have asked me, I would have stayed.
