It may be a Sunday, because his dad is home all day, but his sister is nowhere to be found. At this point, I've lost track.
I sit in the spare bedroom's closet. This is where I put her things, when I finally gathered the courage to move them. Her clothes, her shoes, her purses and jewelry and odd keepsakes are all here, waiting for her to come back for them.
She will not come back for them.
I sit on the floor of the closet and think about my mother. It has been nearly two months since her heart quit on her, and left her on the ground. It has been nearly a month since I received the urn containing what was left of her.
The urn is a beautiful copper, with iridescent hummingbirds decorating it. She would have liked it, I think. It sits on the shelf above me. I do not look at it; I have memorized it, and can no longer stand to see it, because to see it is to see the truth.
It has been a week since my brother called. "I'm having fun with dad," he'd said. "Idaho is beautiful. Mom would have loved it here."
I stay in the closet, sitting amongst her belongings, inhaling her scent. When he comes home, he takes me by the hand and pulls me to bed.
He does not speak. He simply holds me while I cry dry tears. Our dog sits beside me, and I wonder if my mother would have wanted this for me.
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.
