This House
This house is void of furniture—I’m surrounded by cardboard boxes. When my dog barks, the boom prickles my ears.
Physically, I’m in the process of moving, but emotionally I’ve already moved.
Mostly.
So much happened in this place. Over twenty years ago, it was the start of a new life in a new town. New job, new places to go, new people to meet.
Children arrived and life bloomed into loving them. They were the center, the lovely fruit, but the petals began to fade.
Even when it’s for the best, divorce is the worst. It’s like grieving a death, but the corpse continues to breathe. It whispers your life is a lie, and the future is futile. Its rot infects precious memories, making them unbearable to recall.
The corpse slowly disintegrated, shrouding the days in dust. The ashes coated my throat and settled into my chest, making me wheeze, unable to breathe. Weak and tired, I stared at the TV.
And then, one day, Barbara Stanwyck made me smile. I rooted for Bogie fighting Edward G. I stepped outside, and it felt good, good in a way I never thought it would again.
I walked from the rubble toward a life—a beautiful life filled with joy, pain, passion, and love.
This house, this house I’m leaving, is a good place. It can hatch new joys and sorrows. But I’ve outgrown it, split it like an insect husk, to emerge with feathery wings.
Watch me fly.
Photo by Mr. Sean Dunn
