home

The house is empty. End of the day sunlight at a slant through the window. She sits on the floor in the middle of the room.  Eyes closed, inhaling the smell that only this particular house holds. The scent she carries on her jackets and in her luggage. It is the scent of her home.

The bare walls talk to her. They tell her the story of her childhood. But not in words.

She hears the lawn mower. The hose being turned on. Sounds of the neighborhood kids yelling to one another down the street. A basketball’s hollow thunk, thunk next door. The slam of the front door on the house down the cul-de-sac. The slap of feet on the linoleum in the kitchen and the tic-tic-tic of a dog’s toenails following. The creak of the floor boards upstairs.

The walls have more to say.

She feels the breeze on the back of her neck while sitting on the patio. The way the family room carpet feels on the back her legs. A dog's damp nose on the back of her arm. The roughness and heat of the driveway on her bare feet. How the grass under the crab apple tree stays cool in the shade. The weight of a ponytail hanging down her back.

She listens to the walls. She hears and she feels her home, her childhood. But what it amounts to, what she sees - is love.