TWENTY-TWO
KNOX
I gripthe steering wheel so hard, my knuckles ache from the pressure. I feel panic rise in my chest, and I curl my fingers around my t-shirt by my heart.
She’s right.
I am a coward.
The moment I heard the word love come out of her mouth, I fucking panicked. It’s not that I haven’t felt it before from her, but saying it out loud makes it real. It’s not something I can imagine away or pretend I didn’t hear it.
I keep driving further away as if I’ll somehow outrun the demons that want to drag me under again. The houses become a blur as I open up the car, trying to further drown out my thoughts with the engine’s roar.
Without any direction in mind, I finally realize where I was led to as I pull into the driveway and shut off my engine. The small two-bedroom home stares back at me as I peer through the windshield.
How can one house hold so many memories? This is where I first felt love, and this is where a part of me died. Getting out of the car, I walk up the two wooden steps leading up to the front porch.
After my mom passed, my dad eventually had to sell this house. The medical bills were piling up, and his drinking had gotten so much worse that he couldn’t keep up with everything. I don’t know why, but I bought the house last year when it came up on the market.
Until now, I haven’t set foot in this house since that day I was pulled from the only home I ever felt love in.
Putting my key in the lock, I walk in and flip a light switch as I shut the front door behind me.
It’s been updated since I lived here, but I can still picture the faded blue couch and his leather recliner in the corner as I take in the small living room.
The kitchen has new appliances and countertops, but otherwise it still feels the same. I can almost smell my mom’s chocolate chip cookies and remember how she would always let me sneak one before dinner while they were still warm from the oven.
Walking over to the pantry door, I open it and run my hand over the white paint where she would mark my height each year, forever staying at eight years old.
Moving slowly with heavy feet, I go to the small hallway where my bedroom once was. The wood floors are still the same throughout the house, but you can tell they’ve been sanded and re-stained a darker color.
Opening the door, I step inside.
God, it feels like lifetimes ago, but at the same time, I remember it all like it was yesterday.
My mom tucking me into bed each night and reading me stories until I couldn’t fight sleep anymore.
The day she brought home my team jersey and skates for my first game. How she would tell me over and over again how much she loved me and how proud she was of her favorite little boy.
Walking to the closet, I reach out and hesitate briefly before turning the knob and opening the door. Pulling the string hanging down from the ceiling, the light comes on, and I crouch down by the far corner. Faint lines etch the wall as I trace them with my fingers and sink to the floor.
Memories flood my mind, replacing all the good with the bad. If I stayed in here, tucked away, he would almost forget about me.
I stole a small pocketknife from the drawer one day and decided to make a tally mark for every time I hid in here until he passed out. Even then, I would find myself dragging a pillow and blanket in here, feeling safer in this closet than I did in my own bed.
I stare at all the faint marks that not even a coat of paint could cover up. There’s more than any one person would want to count. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to block out all the ugly noise that wants to come through.
I sit there for what feels like hours before getting up and knowing what I have to do.
Opening the back door, I step out into the small backyard. The chain-link fence that once secured the grassy area is now replaced with a white vinyl fence, giving me privacy as I walk to the big mossy oak sitting in the corner.
It was the place where mom and I had countless picnics under this tree, and it’s the place where I left a part of her there. My dad honored my mom’s wishes to be cremated, but refused to part with her ashes or spread them anywhere. I was only nine when I decided she needed better. I knew my mom wouldn’t want to live in a box in the back of Dad’s closet year after year.
I waited until he passed out one night and was snoring loudly on the couch before grabbing a kitchen chair and getting my mom’s ashes down. Switching them out, I put ashes from our old charcoal grill in its place and placed them back in his closet.
Taking the real ones with me, I sprinkled some under this tree so I would have a place to be close to her, and the rest I set her free in the ocean. She always loved the water, and every time I’m around or in the ocean, I like to believe she’s there with me.
Standing under the tree, I shove my hands in my pockets and look at the heart still engraved into the tree, marking the spot where I gave her back to the earth.
