Emptiness filled the house. The ground shone as if new from being swept a hundred times. The windows; which normally covered in handprints and seasonal decor, were flawlessly clean.
With blurred vision, I drudged to where I had spent so many nights, hardly believing my eyes. My usually bright, inviting bedroom, where my sister and I had huddled under the covers in a “tent,” or read with a flashlight, now looked closer to a prison cell then a sleeping sanctuary.
I stooped down to open my closet door and revealed yet another desolate space. It was here that I would do it. Where I would make sure we were always a part of this house. Pencil in hand, I drew in a deep breath before bearing the graphite down on the wall. My fingers, white from the pressure, shakily traced a familiar name. Our last name, on the wall. Forever. I made sure of it.
As I sat back to process what I had done, I wasn’t sure what to feel. A crippling sigh escaped me and stood back up dizzily.
“Lily.” A voice tore through the heavy silence that had gathered in the room. I turned toward the sound as if woken from a dream, and fell into the fortress of my mother’s arms. She stroked my hair for a few moments before suggesting that we return to the kitchen.
“We shouldn’t keep your sister and dad waiting in the car,” she explained. Hands interlocked, we closed the door to my bedroom for the last time.
“Well,” she said hoarsely, gazing at me with red eyes, “This is it. Say goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” I choked, hardly caring that I was speaking to a house. Perhaps if an outsider had been watching, they would have scoffed at the scene.
After all, I had been told countless times, it’s such a small move. It’s not that big of a deal. But standing there with my mother, speaking our last words in the place we had called home for so long, it felt like the ending of a grand chapter.
“Before we go,” my mother sniffed, “I thought I would show you… I wrote a note…” She gently took my hand and lead me to the kitchen island; the island where my she had cooked so many meals, the island where we would laugh and cry as a family. There, on that island, lay a sheet of paper like a cotton ball cloud in a drab sky. She picked it up with trembling hands and began to read it aloud:
Dear Pseudos,
It was lovely getting to meet you. I am so glad to be passing this house down to such wonderful people. We are sad to leave, but it makes me happy to know that your family will grow in such a sweet house. This place has been a faithful home to my us for many years, and I hope that it serves you just as well. God bless you as you start this journey in your life.
Sincerely, the Nyms.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, falling with my mother’s onto the granite island. We stood there for a few moments, holding each other tightly. Her embrace was comforting, familiar. She smelled like warmth and light, like a glowing fire in the bitter cold, like she always had. Then my mother sniffed and we released our grasp.
“We better go.” The sun dried my tears as I shuffled to the car, following my mom. I turned around, soaking in my last view of the house, and a smile formed on my lips. I knew my impulsive inscription would soon fade, and then one day a new one, the name of another family, would appear. They would write their name on this place while we wrote ours on another. And I knew that, when all was said and done, all the names would blur until they were unreadable. And that was alright.
With a final nod, I opened the car door to my family, my home. No matter where we lived, we knew who we were. We knew where our strength was found and where our foundation stood. And no time could erase that.
It was the ending of a chapter, but I knew the best was yet to come.
If you liked this, check out a short story from Girl Spring contributor Margaret just in time for spooky season!
