It is everyday. Everyday since it happened, without fail, I lace up my sneakers. I put on my running clothes.
I run. His house - my house - is up a hill from my mother's house. The house my mother died in.
I run, falling downhill. I run, my lungs shredded to pieces, my thighs shaking. I run a loop that always ends in the same place, in the same way.
I stand at the end of the driveway. I think of her voice, her favorite tv shows, the way she put garlic in everything she cooked.
I stand at the end of the driveway one day, and watch the sign swing back and forth in the breeze. For Sale.
Another day, I stand under the cover of the neighbor's trees, watching as a family unloads groceries from their car. It is no longer my house. It is no longer her house.
After that, everyday without fail, I run past the house. I pump my arms and move my legs as fast as I can, nearly tripping over myself.
I cannot stand to look at it, but I cannot stand to forget it.
YOU ARE READING
Orange Sunday
Teen FictionGrief can be a blur, a loss of sensation, a nightmare you can't seem to escape. But sometimes, it can wake you up. --- I wrote this when I was mourning a relationship. I'm publishing it now to close the door on those feelings.
