Weary Bones, Marin Garand

Weary Bones

Marin Garand ‘23

I find myself in front of an echo of a home long gone. The front door, once a lovely cabernet color, is now an ashy brown. The trim is peeling and the paint falls off in sheets. I try my best not to touch anything, not wanting it all to fall apart. Maybe it’s too late for that. The clunking noise of my suitcase rolling over the stone tiles sounds like high heels clicking on the stairs, and I close my eyes, lost in the fleets of memory. I can hear the delighted shrieks of two little girls chasing each other around the living room, fingers reaching wildly. Chili bubbles on the stove, cats wind between barstools. Love curves in the curl of his hand on her hip, and she laughs-My eyes fly open, and I let the pain slip out in a drop onto my cheek, splattering to the floor. Shadows of forgotten people shift around the room, whispering. I close my eyes again, wishing to find that family again, but they are already lost. I nod quickly, and the house is gaunt, silent. My eyes run over the collapsed staircase; the dusty floors; the invisible handprints that pain has left on these old, frail walls.

I make sure the door closes gently behind me, and I let time swallow the bones of the home that rests behind it.