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prose writing

Their home

This is where they’d started their family, when it was their home.

They walked down a path that led to the house by a lilac bush and a lamppost, where he’d buried his first cat. It was no longer their house anymore, it was their home, the new people who bought it. He drifted off, remembering that first house: the look of the light coming through the kitchen that overlooked the alley, the plumber’s little parking lot. The color of the wood floors, original, old wood. Wide floor boards. Coved ceilings, nice bright light. House plants, a patterned rug. This is where they’d started their family, when it was their home. He lay in bed drifting off to the sound of the kids in the driveway, they had just returned home. It was cold, coming on December, and they were still kids. And he was still young for a time too. He thought about running the generator to keep the battery from going, and thought about getting a tree. There was nothing but sun today. And all the life they had to live still, in their home.


Image by Albert Neuhuys, ‘A peasant family at lunch,’ 1895

By pinklightsabre

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.

3 replies on “Their home”

When I moved into my house, there was a piece of shale in the back garden painted with the name “Alex.” I threw it into the woods. Two years later, planting a bush, I dug up Alex, his vertebrae anyway. Gotta be thoughtful when burying a family member.

Once, visiting my wife’s hometown of Erie, we went out for Mexican and drank margaritas, After dinner we swung by her old house to show our kids. Buzzed, we knock on the door and asked to look around their house. The owner was indulgent and the kids got to see where their mom grew up.

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Hey I lived in Erie too! Went to school at that Penn State campus for a couple years, sometimes went to Presque Isle. Like those images you shared Jeff, thanks. I’ve gone back to that old house where used to live too and the owners were gracious but it’s a strange, sentimental, private thing. Not recommended, I think. But could be good for the kids, I suppose.

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