The house is silent and cold…

The truck is packed.

Rain patters on the rooftop. It will be a while before I hear the soft susurration of rain on shingle again.

The house looks the same. There’s no empty feel to it. I keep trying to will it empty, but I can’t. Because everything looks the same, even without furniture. It’s curves and creaks and knobs and squeaks are familiar to me. I can walk a path to my son’s former bedroom with my eyes closed.

In eight hours or so, I will sit in an empty apartment. It’s floors, walls, ceiling, view will be deeply unfamiliar. I will sit there and think to myself, what are we getting into?

I think I thought the same thought when we first got this house. This familiar-to-me, silent, cold, not-quite-empty house.

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