I never knew it would be something as insignificant as your chair that would make me cry.
The feeling snuck up on me. As I walked up to your front door after the sale had ended, and strangers raided your house, I distinctly remember lingering on my reflection, which could be seen in the glass of the door. It was one of the first times I didn’t smile when walking up to your porch, and that realization cemented the barrier I’d been unknowingly building the previous month. I was defensive, still in denial that you had left, and I didn’t want to face that fact so soon.
But, despite my hesitation to confront what I’d been avoiding, I unlocked the door.
The moment I stepped onto the carpet, something made that barrier shatter. I could feel it splinter in my chest until the remnants coursed through my veins, as bitter as malice, and attacked the rest of my body. The only symptoms shown of what I had so brutally felt were the tears that fell from my face. It wasn’t until I looked at where you used to occupy your chair that I was utterly overwhelmed with the sick awareness that I would never see you there again.
For most of the 17 years you’ve known me, I spent nearly every day walking up your front steps, excited to ask about your day and willing to help with any job you gave me. When I understood that your couches, paintings, knickknacks, and even the patio chair you kept by the window for me had all gone to new people, I couldn’t comprehend that the last 17 years were behind me.
Going through every room, seeing the price tags on all the items nobody valued as useful, struck something deep in the center of me; I had a sinking feeling that once I exited your house, it would be for the last time, and the positive atmosphere we created in that space would vanish.
I didn’t want to go.
You always talked about how much I helped you, but I don’t think I truly voiced my appreciation for how much you helped me. Knowing that most days I would be the only person you were seeing was the only motivation I needed on the times I didn’t want to get out of bed. It was the small gestures of getting your mail, taking out the trash, bringing you gifts and plates of food every holiday, or even just sitting to talk with you while you water your flowers that come flooding back to me when I think of you throughout the day.
In hindsight, I wish I had told you how much those days sitting by your side, not noticing the afternoon tick by and hearing you reminisce so fondly about your husband and your children, had meant to me. I know now that you let me into those certain places in your life that nobody else had the privilege of seeing, and I can’t help but think that we had always been family, too.
Witnessing the disrespect ingrained in the price tags on everything you owned—your husband’s favorite books, the full family photo albums, and your favorite, dirt-trodden, purple gardening shoes—still haunts me.
So, I took home those photo albums, the watercolor painting you adored, the red blanket you kept for me on your couch, and the records of love songs your husband gave you, not out of respect, but out of love and as a reminder of the genuine person you are and who you want me to be.
