Along the steep, winding, charcoal drive, past the long empty mailbox that still bears his full name, up the three gray steps to the faded red door, heavy footsteps contrast the quiet rustle of leaves in the wind. Rays of sunshine bounce off the crisp green grass and back toward the clear blue skies. The screen creeks, the knob turns, and the son enters ready to begin the job he wished didn't need to be done. Impossibly, silence and darkness surround the empty spaces that have been and still should be filled with family, fresh pies, laughter, and love. The home has long accepted what the family now acknowledges. The heart of the household, baker of breads and mother to many returns here no longer. It is time for this family to say goodbye, empty the space of things but not memories, and make room for another family to fill.
Decisions abound. What to keep? What to pass? What to give away? Where does the rest go? Who wanted this? Was it him? Was it her? Where did this come from? Has that always been here? The questions run and jumble through his head, yet enter his ears as if they'd been said aloud. Answers are elusive, but he knows where to start. Buried in a Dr. Scholl's shoebox in a dark corner an overfilled closet are 103 letters. 103 letters written to her. While the family knows the letters hold the beginning of the story, until this moment, the beginning of the story had only been read by one.
kmessner
ReplyDeletePosted July 8, 2014 at 9:40 am | Permalink
First of all, Jennifer, I’m sending love your way – such a hard, hard thing to do. You have captured that feeling of loss and change so beautifully with your details here – right down to the specific number of letters in that Dr. Scholl’s shoebox.