As It Should Be

As I gaze out the window, I am home. Everything is as it should be, the sun setting behind the little blue house across the street, the hill sloping leisurely down to meet the two as afternoon slides to twilight.
The light is on in their kitchen window, a caregiver watching over the two timeworn souls inside. The kindly light behind the blinds is a beacon, upon which my comfort is tethered.

Now there are cars across the street. Not just the exchange of nannies. There are relatives. Too many. Too frantic. The whispers: she's gone. He doesn't want to leave. He'll die without her. What to do?

Then nothing.
He's gone too.
Not forever, just away.

So the house sits empty for a time, a lonely relic of what once was. Of the poisoned blessing, time.

Then a sign: FOR SALE.

On Saturday morning, an estate sale. The house is gutted and the delectable organs are displayed for all to see. Curious vultures come to prey on the remains of the deceased, haggling over the price of memories.

Real estate can be something of a blessing. The cars, one at a time, were reminiscent of the nannies, of the time before.

The sign went down all too soon, on a gloomy, dripping day. The garage door across the street opened, a rarity. A man and a teenager maneuvered a shiny sedan in reverse to rest. The garage door closed.

Mom met him the other day, the man. Nice enough, she said. I was glad to have a good excuse to leave.

There was a van in the driveway this morning. Tile Remodeling, it said. Kitchen Resurfacing. blah blah. Not even the hollow interior is saved, it seems.

The sun has set for good tonight, a hint of purple on the horizon the only memory of today. There is nothing more than silhouettes, the hill and the little blue house across the street. The light in the kitchen is not on, and it seems will never be. At least, not like it was before. The only trace of those souls is in my memory. The house that was theirs is foreign to me.