Dead flies, empty homes, and sad faces
Today, I realized my neighbors had moved.
I was deep cleaning my room, as I do at the end of every season—swapping sundresses for sweaters, unboxing boots, and lint-rolling cat fur from my curtains. They had remained shut for most of the summer, and a thick layer of dust coated the windowsill. A couple of dead fly husks lay shriveled and dry, like September strawberries. I shamefully pushed the dust and dirt into a garbage bag, cringing at the soft thuds of their bodies. I felt embarrassed cleaning them up, but I felt even more embarrassed knowing
they had been there for months.
It wasn’t until I looked up to scrub at a mark on the window that I realized the neighbor’s backyard was completely empty. The trampoline, the sandbox, the grill, the doghouse—everything was gone. The curtains were either removed or left wide open, revealing vacant rooms lit only with the dull gray sunlight. A single armchair was left in the center of the living room as if someone had been in the process of carrying it out but later decided otherwise. It looked sad. The whole house looked sad. It reminded me of the tired faces the bus drivers wore back when I was in grade school—like the face of a person who used to really want to be something.
I guess I’m writing about this because part of me was offended I didn’t notice until now. I felt embarrassed I didn’t realize how much life was going on outside my window while I had my head buried in books and journals and my hands. It’s a strange feeling seeing someone for the last time and knowing it, but there’s a different kind of hurt in staring at a piece of that person—whether it be a receipt, their handwriting, or an empty armchair—and that being the closest you’ll ever get to seeing them again. When I asked what happened to them, I got laughs and weird looks.
“They moved over a month ago.”
“Last I heard, they got a place up in Washington.”
“They were renting. Only a short-term thing.”
“You didn’t realize how quiet it was without all their kids?”
I wondered if they thought my face looked like an empty house.
this is so so beautifully written. particularly loved "It’s a strange feeling seeing someone for the last time and knowing it, but there’s a different kind of hurt in staring at a piece of that person—whether it be a receipt, their handwriting, or an empty armchair—and that being the closest you’ll ever get to seeing them again" you're so right about how strange it is to look at a piece of someone after they're gone and i loved how you wrote that bit so much :)
“I wondered if they thought my face looked like an empty house.” You wondered if they could see you were a person who really wanted to be something—the same way you did those bus drivers.