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In the Absence of Walls
I visited his late grandmother’s house in December, met his mom for the first time, and played cards on the wooden dining room table while sipping on microwaved mint tea. The house sat on the bottom of a hill, a small, one story ranch style with uncomplicated rooflines. He took me through the back entrance, pushing past a sliding glass door. It was a familiar habit of his, and for the first time I was a part of it. The house bordered a golf course that overlooked the city at the thirteenth hole. After brief hello’s and it’s nice to finally meet you’s we walked it by ourselves, the three of us, clad in worn coats and shy boots that followed the trails of conversation. We smiled quietly as leaves and decay cried under us, the lazy descent of the sun tracking our movements without offering warmth. I held my breath instead of saying the wrong thing. Hopeful at first, always hopeful, until it started to rain. The walls of the house were much like any other: colored, cream, and cracking...
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