Through the Window

Since the house was sold, visiting my Aunt Steffie never felt the same. I was visiting only half of what I should be. I looked out of my aunt's kitchen window--just as I looked up the hill from Grandma's kitchen--and laid eyes upon the house owned by a stranger.

It looked the same for the most part, save for the leaves neatly blown to the edges of the woods. Orange couches leaned against the house, probably a symptom of not being 'settled in' yet.

The dark brown swing frame still stood in it's spot, in front of the pear tree and above the pink bricks, now cracking into cement dust from years of weathering and use.

I never observed the house long, the thought of not being able to walk down the hill and into the thick zusha grass proved unsettling, and a deep, disturbing feeling crept over my body. It wasn't right, and the emotions that flowed from it didn't bode well with the truth of it all.

I have to turn away quick, or the memories have time to manifest themselves and try to bring me down into the depths of despair once again.