I never noticed how empty my house was before she left me. Nothing was taken from my house, but it felt different all the same.
Walking down the hall, the house seemed lifeless, but spiteful. I always kept the window looking out of the ocean shuttered, I couldn’t stand to look at the waves. I never let dishes fill the sink or counter. If the house had anything it wanted to express to me, it was sad curiosity.
The wooden planks creaked under my footsteps, asking me why I was alone now. I didn’t know what to say in response. The bright blue of the walls was burned by eyes, so I painted it a shade of gray. I convinced myself it matched better.
I never noticed how quiet my house was before she was gone. Apart from my footsteps, nothing broke the silence. It hung over the hallways and rooms like a cloud, demanding respect. And I did. I started wearing socks around the house, gently closing cabinets, keeping the T.V. muted and stopped inviting people over. I didn’t play my piano through the evenings anymore, music was not my friend.
One night a storm rocked me awake, pounding my head with thunder. I ran into the bathroom with a blanket and held my ears, I couldn’t understand why it was loud. When it finally let up, the air seemed to relax, the silence reclaiming its authority.
Our old furniture slowly became my enemy. It was too squeaky, too bright and too much. So I bought new ones that were black and thankfully, quiet.
I never noticed how lonely my house was until an old friend came over. She looked at the gray walls I painted, and the dark furniture I put in, the emptiness that permeated everything, and listened to the incredibly loud silence, and looked at me sadly. I’m sorry, she mouthed, understanding the pact I had made. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. She said she hoped I felt better and she was sorry for my loss and left.
I never noticed how sad my house was after she died, but I guess I hadn’t noticed a lot of things.