IN THE PLACE OF OUR PARENTS

Though I know it’s just the two of us, some mornings I wake up and expect to find them there. I can’t help it. Before school, I’ll go into their room and breathe in the smells of them. My mother’s sweet, fruity perfume that still clings to her pillows and my father’s coat that hangs in the cupboard, reminding me of trips out in the car with him. In this way, I keep them alive though the scents feel like they’re fading along with the images. Threads of memories disappearing. Sometimes I’ll turn around and find my sister standing in the doorway watching me. Her eyes will be bright and I’ll know she understands.

We’ll get ready then step outside, and I’ll look at the houses and the gardens and think how strange it all is now. The things that we were so used to hearing — the sounds of laughter, the echoes of cars, of lawnmowers, of motion — are now replaced with nothing but silence, and the sound of the sea that sometimes reaches us from the other end of town. We’ll walk past gardens becoming overgrown and houses that are empty. Sometimes we’ll see the faces of children looking out at us and we’ll smile or wave. Sometimes they’ll do the same; sometimes they’ll just stare at us.

We’ll get to the corner of our street, where the bus used to pick us up, and we’ll wait there, just to see if it will turn the corner and come back into sight. I’ll glance at my sister and see the hopeful look in her eyes as she leans out, just to see. I guess both of us are still hoping, waiting for something, waiting for our lives to reattach themselves to what