I slipped into one of my dad’s white dress shirts and crawled into his bed. I never remembered falling asleep.
I woke in the morning to a high-pitched sound that I imagined a dying cat might make. It was the doorbell. That, like many other things, was somewhere on my dad’s ever growing, ‘we’ll get to it one of these days,’ list of to do’s.
I stood in the doorway watching three burly men pack a teenage girls room. I watched not because I didn’t trust them. I watched because for the last eight years this house had been my dad’s and David’s and mine. All of our memories and dreams had become as essential to this structure as the framework and foundation. I sadly imagined our little stucco house in the desert crumbling away, a little more each time a picture frame or book or hanging paper lantern was wrapped and meticulously packed in cardboard boxes.
It was nearly a week after my personal belongings hit the road to Camden that Alex came to me again. I was curled up around a pillow in my dad’s bed slipping in and out of various stages of consciousness when I felt him. It’s the subtle shift in energy, the hum in my blood that gives him away. I can’t see you, I thought to myself before finishing aloud.
“I know you’re there.”
I whispered in case David was still awake, suspecting that Alex would be able to hear me no matter how quietly I spoke the words. I stared into the darkness, not moving from the position on my side where I laid.
Alex had never answered me before, and I didn’t expect him to this time either. Perhaps for him it was a game, or maybe he was too afraid of my reaction.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s