Let It Be Morning

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The door gives a terrible screech as my mother opens it. The children’s bedroom gives off a musty smell, like a secondhand bookstore that people hardly visit. She hurries over to the window and opens it, wipes some of the dust off the desk with her dust cloth, and says “See, nothing’s changed.” And I look at her, so changed, so tired, so old. She gives me her usual look, the one that always says everything will be okay.

“The food will be ready in a minute.”

“I’m not hungry, Mom.”

“I bet you haven’t eaten since this morning. Come on, eat it while it’s still warm. It’ll take a while. Go take a nap, and I’ll call you. There’s pea soup too.”

My mother is sensitive enough to close the door on her way out. I look around the room I left ten years ago. Nothing’s changed, except for the fact that nobody lives in it. The three cots stand empty, evenly spaced. I was the first of the three brothers to leave this room, and now I’m the first to return. Nothing’s changed, except perhaps the smell, which I still can’t manage to ignore, and now I can imagine what being forsaken smells like.

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