When I’m home alone, I think of how empty the house feels. I listen to the lawn mowers rumbling outside on the neighbors’ lawns and I listen to the wooshing sounds that cars make as they zoom down on our street.
I walk around each room, feeling the wood panels flex under my bare feet. I imagine my mother going about her day in this silent house.
I sit in our kitchen nook and imagine her standing near the island, writing a grocery list on a small note pad. She considers which pot she wants to use to make dinner, shifting them around in their drawer as they clang together like heavy bells.
I stand in front of our piano, plucking on key at a time in a C major scale. She has wanted to learn how to play for awhile now. I imagine her sitting on the black cushioned bench, squinting at the contents of Piano For Dummies. Her hands would hover over the white keys and then she’d slowly press a finger down for a note to sound.
I walk through the hallway, where all the doors to all the rooms are closed. I imagine hearing the crack of her slippers on the hardwood floors as she would enter hers and my father’s bedroom.
I imagine what I could do to fill up the silence.
I turn on the television, I turn on my music, I listen to Harry Potter audiobooks. I wait for someone to come home.
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