Trial of the Senses

Four: 1999

A week had passed since I got the news my parents planned to move south, miles away from their children.  On the bright side, my brothers and I could take this as a sign that they knew we could survive without them, like we did everyday but I still felt sad about it and I wasn’t helping them find a suitable home with much enthusiasm.  Mom noticed that.

I was staying at their house for the weekend, and on Saturday night we were at the dining table centered around my computer’s screen, scrolling through homes listed for sale.  Every time I saw that word, I died a little inside. 

“Hold on Lisa, stop right there,” dad said suddenly.

I groaned, “Don’t tell me you like this one.”  It was ugly. Why they dared to put it for sale was beyond me.

“No, you passed it.  Four houses back…there,” he tapped the screen. “What do you think Mary?”

I could feel her eyes on me for a moment and hoped my face was neutral. The house itself looked…nice… I clicked to see the information provided.

Mom adjusted her glasses and leaned closer.

“The outside view is lovely, and the lawn was made for roses. Lisa, get up.”

I sighed and stood.

My mother, at fifty-eight, was one of the people at her age who knew how to use modern operative systems without help.  She had in part, her job as an accountant over the years to thank, along with two sons, and what she learnt was always shared with dad.  Neighbors who came for help didn’t find this out of place at first until they realized her age, because Mary Johnson still looked rather young.  The sun had done a number on her skin in recent times—from neglecting sunscreen and a hat while gardening—by deepening the wrinkles at her eyes and mouth.  But her skin was still firm and the habit of dying her long, lustrous, straight hair black when the silver became too prominent with a short, nicely plump build gave the illusion of eternal youth.  Dad, who was four years older, also had this aura of youth about him, with a clean-shaven head, and well-groomed beard feathered with silver. Except for the wrinkles at his eyes, he really had no excuse to retire early if not for his birth certificate.

My mother settled in my previous space and began to scroll through each picture capturing the internal layout of the house.  Unfortunately, it had tacky yellow walls which reminded the viewer of snot.  Super unsightly, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed is what I told my parents when they mentioned it. 

“Aside from that, I like it too,” she smiled. “This house looks nice, and easy to manage.”

“And most importantly, the price is just right,” dad added, reaching for his phone to call the realtor.

I yawned and stretched, “Looks like my job’s done for tonight, finally.”

My legs felt lazy from sitting so long, and it took a while to get to the kitchen for some light supper.  Why was I feeling older than my parents at the age of twenty-eight?  As I opened the fridge to get the pot of vegetable soup, mom came in after some time and answered my question as I set it on the stove.

“Do you still exercise?” she laughed, “You’re walking like a woman who’s lived a full life.”

I turned to her slowly with droopy eyes, after watching the flames dance underneath the black pot, with my butt leaning on the island.

“This,” I motioned down my frail, mortal clay, “is the effect of running a growing company. If it weren’t for the memories I have of those slow earlier days, and the sleepless nights I spent to start it I would be downright crying.”