Allison Brown
The house on the corner sat quiet for the first time in decades. Nothing dared to break the silence, not even the mouse who had taken up residency behind the pantry cupboard. The house and its surroundings were holding their breath.
The plants in the sunroom, which were used to daily attention from gentle hands, had begun to wilt. A book sat on the coffee table, bookmarked at the place where it would remain unfinished. A newly refilled prescription sat on the counter, but the daily routine of taking them with the first sip of a freshly cracked can of Coke had been paused indefinitely.
The ghost of laughter hung in the air, desperate to break free, but there was no one there to supply the noise. Generations of this laughter lived in the walls covered in the still smiling faces and doorways marked with the heights of children long since grown and ones still sprouting like weeds.
The bed was made, the dishwasher loaded, and laundry from the dryer was folded. They will never be turned down, emptied, or put away by the same hands that were delicate from years of a life well lived.
The house was waiting for someone to return—the steady presence that had been there for years, with routines never broken and plenty of love to share.
The clouds above began to release a smattering of rain, the drops rolling down the windows of the sunroom, and the gloom casting a shadow across the home.