Together

I spend that last night in my house running my fingers over all the things I will miss, already miss. The silken chill of my granite countertops. The stained glass picture window leaking streetlight over the leather couch, scarred and softened by a decade of cozy evenings. The newel post at the base of the stairs, the initials we carved under its lip on the day we moved in. And up the stairs-

But our pictures are already taken down. I could just sink down on this step, I think, right here, and sob. I could wake the whole house with my sorrow, from the mice in the basement to the bats in the rafters, the people dreaming in between.

I can't bear to go up the stairs, not past those empty nails, so I drift into the library instead. I remember when it was just a room with waterlogged drywall and asbestos flooring. No lush, handtied carpet soft as moss. No built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, hand-drafted in the garage workshop. Just the single box of books worth hauling from apartment to sublet apartment. What a relief it was to finally find a home, somewhere to nest after the stress of those madcap city years.

What does it take to make a home? Work. Sweat, belief. Things I'm unsure I can muster again. Not at this age. Not without him. We were so young when we moved in, so dumb and full of hope. We didn't see the crumbling, foreclosed colonial that had scared off a year's worth of motivated buyers. We saw potential, and God, wasn't it so hard to hold onto that vision? Saving up for one room at a time, doing the hardest, most expensive labor ourselves, suffering through blistering fights in garden centers and discount furniture warehouses. All because we wanted to build the life we deserved.

Together, I mentally amend. The life we deserved together. All gone, all for nothing. Now, I do sink to the ground. I plunge my hands into the high-pile carpet, wish we hadn't stapled it down. Briefly, I imagine ripping it up, transplanting it to a new home: a modest cottage, somewhere quiet. One bedroom. I imagine slicing down this field of green to fit a tiny living room, perhaps some of these books taken as well, stacked into flatpack, dime-a-dozen shelving units...

No. It sickens me. It's not right.

I remember why I'm here. I pick up my containers. Slowly, I slosh up the stairs, skipping the squeaky step. Quiet as the suburban night, I creep into our bedroom. The window is open, wind playing in the white lace curtains I chose. I uncap the plastic red jugs. I stand over the bed.

I stare at him, his arm cast lazily over her side. I stare at her, asleep on the same mattress (the same sheets!) I slept on every night for the best years of my life.

I dump the gas. I flick my lighter. We all go together.