Few things are sadder to me than the lonely echoes of an empty house. Army brat. We always knew the departing families on base. Sometimes the kids would let us know how to open the doors, and we'd sneak in with pilfered alcohol, plastic cups and a boombox. We wouldn't know where to sit. Everything was so loud with nothing to absorb the sound.
I wish I had forced everyone to a ceremonial last dinner around the dining room table. But everything is so hurried. An unexpected offer, a cash buyer, an immediate inspection. One weekend over and everybody's gone, at my parents' guest house, or a teenage friend's place. Now it's just me, a cot and those damnable echoes.
Six years. Was I a different person then? I burned all my correspondence, I think that was the time of my online persona's last hurragh. I had one or two fuckups in me left, and then I turned pro. Why am I putting myself through the last throes of a dying home, god knows. There are a few eggs in the fridge. A coffee mug. A half empty bottle of wine.