|
Last Move
She caresses her hand lovingly over frayed seams. One more comfortable old friend sacrificed to her nomadic lifestyle. Well, there simply isn’t enough room in the moving van, and something has to be left behind. She hates leaving it out on the cold, gray street like this and a few embarrassing tears fall to join the slush on the sidewalk.
“Who cries over furniture, anyway?” she angrily berates herself.
She barely hears the resounding clank as the van’s storage bay locks behind her. She runs her hand over that rough spot on the arm where the ketchup stain never really did come up. Her husband comes to stand behind her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. He is impatient to leave but understands her need to say one last goodbye, and stands silently with her. One more touch to the aged-softened upholstery; across the back this time where her furry companion has left an indentation from years of lying in the sun. He is already in his carrier in the van cab. She places her hand over her husband’s heavy one, and realizes that nothing truly important is being left behind. It’s just an old chair that should have been replaced years ago. She pats her husband’s hand and they turn as one to climb into the truck, miles of empty interstate in front of them. She can’t resist a final glance in the rear-view, though; one final goodbye as they pull away. Her thoughts turn to their new home as the first snowflakes start to fall.
|