By Kevin Moriarity
Empty. I had never seen it empty. For 30 years it had contained more or less the same furniture, paintings and knick knacks. Dad said he wouldn’t replace anything until that damn dog died. The mongrel lived 19 years and after my parents put him down they didn’t care anymore.
We had a firm come in and do an estate sale last week; none of us wanted to watch our family home picked apart by garage-sale vultures. The closing was today;we chose not to attend, letting the attorneys earn their money.
My mom’s funeral a distant memory, selling the house brought back the pain.
I had to go through the house again, and again, and one last time. I did not want to leave. I made sure everything was turned off. The back door was locked. I walked out the front door, locked it and tossed the keys through the mail slot in the door. That mere flick of the wrist was so final.
I sat in my car. I was in no condition to drive; I couldn’t see. I told myself it is just a house. A new family will make new memories. But God it hurt.
Kevin Moriarity spent a couple of decades working in the software business. A bunch of that time was spent writing software manuals and procedures. That got a bit dull, so he decided to give fiction a try. He also cofounded Waterline Writers – a community of writers and writing enthusiasts in Batavia, IL.