Where your favorite blogs come alive
you will immediately turn to the right of the front door, where the dog bed was. sorry. force of habit. there is a side table in its stead. it has a cherry finish. mom has moved the radio into your room.
you keep your old house as the primary shipping address “just in case.” your new sunglasses will have come in and are waiting on the front step. the old ones broke when you were pawing through your work bag trying to find that pack of gum.
the house will be silent. it’s never been this silent for this long. every few minutes over the last 13 years, your dog would snuffle and bite at that one spot on his stomach. the tap tap tap of his toenails against the floorboards heralded his arrival. in high school, you learned to shut your bedroom door at night. sometimes you’d forget and you would wake up to the jingle of his nametag. you don’t realize you’re looking for something until you find yourself surprised that the living room is empty.
you will live out of your suitcase in your childhood bedroom and stub your toe against the new exercise bike in the corner. you forgot to put your laundry away before you left. the wrinkles that form on your favorite work blouse (the one you got for $8) will remind you of the river you learned to swim in. your cousin is going to grad school out west. you should reach out. you’ve been telling yourself this for over a year.
you will think about bringing back the lamp by your bed to furnish the living room but ultimately decide to leave it here. just in case. you will find your dog’s harness buried in the second drawer of your grandmother’s dresser and sniff it cautiously. don’t worry— the smell will linger for months. you will make a to-do list for work tomorrow and watch the sunset. you used to keep a spare pen in the desk drawer. it’s run out of ink. you thought you were done grieving.
in the evening, you will bump into your youngest brother outside mom’s room. oops sorry. my bad. mom is quietly reading in her room. your brother will continue transporting boxes from the attic. he is moving out in two days. the last time you heard the cicadas sing was also here. you can’t hear them in your new apartment. mom declared how happy she was for everyone at dinner. you thought she might be holding back tears. you wanted to ask if she would be okay by herself. you will instead ask her what she did with the dog bed.
the first time you go home after your childhood dog dies, you let the rest of the song play out before turning off the car. you text your roommate that you made it back safely and that traffic was horrible. you check your email and pin a message from your coworker. you wish mom was home already. you draft a text to your friend: i’m scared that my house won’t feel like home anymore. you add red onion to your grocery list. you should have stopped for a bathroom break an hour ago. you miss how things were last august. mr. rodney waves at you as he makes his way up the block. “how long are you here for?” he asks. you tell him just a few days. you delete the text. tonight you will sleep with the door open.