It’s a reflex. I walk into the house and set my backpack down under the stairs, just like I did when I would stay with him for the weekend.
Crack! Whole house creaks.
Spark! Woody smell lingers.
Pop! Hallway light shines.
Flash! Vacuum lines show.
Everywhere I look, I’m reminded of a past or a passing. It’s a wave of grief within some new dimension of myself, more distant than before – like silent flashes of heat lightning in summer.
Although this seems more subdued, my nerves are coated in an electrical charge. At some point I might have to stop and process what I’m perceiving. I collect these thoughts but I don’t examine them in the moment. There are too many. Will this build into another shock wave?
Instead I busy myself over-analyzing thoughts about what’s to come, hoping it won’t rain again. Appreciating the distance from the storm.
Longing for the sun that shines so bright it can dissolve the shadows, revealing only the warm, good memories.