The sidewalk beneath my feet has begun to erode away, pieces of rock and fragmented cement escaping onto the barren street. Weeds have sprouted between the cracks, and bright-yellow dandelions poke their faces towards a dull, overcast sky.
My sister is dragging her feet. The soles of Layna’s shoes roll against the grit, and the grating noise gnaws away at my unravelled nerves. Razor-blade words cut their way up my throat, but her swollen, pink-rimmed eyes, and the deep creases in her forehead stop the words short, and they bleed back down. I won’t say anything. A fight is the last thing we need right now.
Pulling my jacket tighter against the crisp November air, my gaze flicks around the stomping ground of my childhood. The small tan houses that frame the asphalt stand in identical lines, each side of the street reflecting the other. Most of the lawns have gone brown with stiff, dead grass, and are oddly free of cheap plastic …show more content…
Layna peers over at me. “Boxes? Oh, yeah, I left them on the porch yesterday. I hope the rain didn’t ruin them.” She dips her head closer to her chest as the wind picks up. “I meant to put them inside, but—”
She stops as her throat gets thick and her words become muddled. She takes a second to gather herself. “I couldn’t go in, not on my own.”
A silence stretches long between us. Layna dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her thin sweater, then reaches down and grasps my red-tipped fingers as we approach our mother’s house. Without a word, we step up onto the porch stairs that rasp in complaint, and I hold my breath, waiting for the curtains to swish, and the glimpse of Mom’s beaming face before she bustled towards the front door in her excitement to see us, throwing open the door to smother us in hugs, all wrinkled skin and senior sweat, and the scent of home.
But the curtains stay still, and my heart sinks to my feet, because our mother’s house is empty
My sister is dragging her feet. The soles of Layna’s shoes roll against the grit, and the grating noise gnaws away at my unravelled nerves. Razor-blade words cut their way up my throat, but her swollen, pink-rimmed eyes, and the deep creases in her forehead stop the words short, and they bleed back down. I won’t say anything. A fight is the last thing we need right now.
Pulling my jacket tighter against the crisp November air, my gaze flicks around the stomping ground of my childhood. The small tan houses that frame the asphalt stand in identical lines, each side of the street reflecting the other. Most of the lawns have gone brown with stiff, dead grass, and are oddly free of cheap plastic …show more content…
Layna peers over at me. “Boxes? Oh, yeah, I left them on the porch yesterday. I hope the rain didn’t ruin them.” She dips her head closer to her chest as the wind picks up. “I meant to put them inside, but—”
She stops as her throat gets thick and her words become muddled. She takes a second to gather herself. “I couldn’t go in, not on my own.”
A silence stretches long between us. Layna dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her thin sweater, then reaches down and grasps my red-tipped fingers as we approach our mother’s house. Without a word, we step up onto the porch stairs that rasp in complaint, and I hold my breath, waiting for the curtains to swish, and the glimpse of Mom’s beaming face before she bustled towards the front door in her excitement to see us, throwing open the door to smother us in hugs, all wrinkled skin and senior sweat, and the scent of home.
But the curtains stay still, and my heart sinks to my feet, because our mother’s house is empty