I chase the final fly through the empty house, whacking at
windows, slapping at carpets, and feel no sadness. And maybe that wasn’t the
final fly. Maybe his cousin, or uncle, or wife’s second husband is lurking
behind another blind. I will swat him too, and moan about what happens when you
build a subdivision on a farm.
Flies. Flies are what happen.
The swatter echoes in the empty space. The walls are too
white. The baseboards dustier than I realized. And still no sadness.
I’m immune to leaving. I’ve been leaving since the day I was
born. I think, sometimes, that I was born to leave, I’m so good at it. Leaving
is like breathing for me.
And I told my son with a shrug the other day, “There’s a
last time for everything. Don’t ever forget that.”
When you learn to leave like I have, when you’re raised up
on leaving, you realize that you only leave the things and it isn’t the things
that matter, but the memories. You can’t leave the memories. You take those
with you. You hold the memories.
The house is stark without us, no longer a home, the last
fly buzzes inches from me. And . . . no . . . no sadness.
