I subscribe to several groups that show pictures of abandoned homes and buildings. I love to think about the events that led these former dwellings to be in the condition that we now see them. Pictures of one abandoned home inspired this tonight: abandoned

She opened the refrigerator and took the milk out. Whole. She preferred skim, but the baby needed the fat. It was still dark in the kitchen, even at 7:15 AM. She knew that the sun would not break over the hill behind the house until half past eight, even in the dead of winter. He used to like that, it made the babies sleep late, he said. He would take every minute he could get. She poured the milk into the three sippy cups, one red, (well, pink now after so many washings,) one green, one blue, and a quarter cup into the coffee mug that she had not packed for herself. She shuffled over to the silverware drawer by habit and opened it, looking out the back window as her hand reached in for a teaspoon. Her eyes ran over the tree house that he had built, the swing set as her fingers came up empty. She looked into the empty drawer. [Jesus, girl. Empty. You packed all the stainless away two days ago.] Over to the cabinet, opened the door, pulled out the jar of Cafe Bustelo, his favorite, walked back to the counter. She stopped, holding the plastic jar in her hands. Felt the smoothness of the label, felt the broken edge on the lid. 24 ounces from the big bulk store a county over. Her finger ran over the crack in the lid, sharp and imperfect; a good seal was no longer possible since the morning that their three year old had knocked it off the kitchen counter. 24 ounces. What was that, even, an ounce? That should have lasted them a year or more. He had been so upset at the baby, but she had calmed everyone, like she always did. She could put it in a bag, and besides, what did he care? That was her domain. She would put it in a bag. She meant to put it in a bag. Her finger ran over the sharp break in the plastic. Over and over in the dim light of the Kentucky predawn. Finally, she popped the lid open with a quick motion of her thumb, as she had every morning for five years, and shook what she thought was a teaspoon into the milk in her mug. She was not fond of this Mexican coffee, but he liked it. He insisted on it, said it reminded him of home. She had given him that. She knew that any comfort here was a blessing. The microwave was on the table still, no longer on the counter but moved to a temporary place and plugged in to the wall with an extension cord. She had used it last night to make hot ham and cheese sandwiches for the kids. She put her mug in and started the last thirty seconds of cooking that she would do in this house. Their house. As the hum of the microwave filled the room, she looked over the kitchen. It was so empty now. Everything was packed away, ready to put into the truck that her brother was driving in from Saint Louis. Boxes. Everything was boxes now. They had put him in a box three days ago. She opened the microwave door when the timer reached one second so that the alarm would not wake the children. Let them have this late morning, this one last time in this house before everything changed. She took her coffee out. She sat in his chair and missed him, for the first time for the rest of her life.

Submitted January 16, 2016 at 02:28PM by louibrew http://ift.tt/1JQyUoZ abandoned