Familiarity by Sadie Hutchings illustration by Sadie Hutchings
The night wind batters against the window; the bubbled, spider-webbed glass too thin and cracked to keep out the surges of heat that accompany each wave of summer humidity. I am walking silently across well-worn floorboards edged with the familiar walls of this house. How often did we sit here together last winter? How often did we wedge ourselves under that windowpane, as we mixed the air from our lungs with the frosty winds that snuck their way in? Sitting there long enough for the cold to numb us. We never did call a repairman to come and fix that window. Maybe you’ve always secretly liked the idea of disrepair. I run my hand along the cedar credenza my grandfather gifted us. My fingers come away layered in dust. When was the last time we invited him to come to stay with us? I always mean to call, but each time I reach for the phone, you draw me into you and I forget all about grandfathers and the world outside our house. This house. You’ve always had that effect on me—the ability to silence my mind. It’s why I love you. It’s why I’m leaving you. Following the glare of moonlight streaming in from the window, I make my way down the narrow stairs. The 15
