Coming Home

The day he came home, the curtains were drawn shut in the living room and it seemed that nobody had lived there at all. The swoosh of the heavy curtains as he parted them released weeks of dust into the air.

He walked carefully into the kitchen, where nothing was out of its cupboard except a large glass pitcher half filled with water. He stepped into the small dining room, where dust had settled on the wooden table. Then pushing open the doors to his bedroom, he half expected to see a grisly sight, something to explain the invading emptiness.

Instead, nothing looked as though it had been ruffled or even touched. The largeness of his bed, uplifted on carved legs, taking up the center of the room. His wardrobes and drawers all tightly shut. A wooden chair, its back perfectly parallel to the length of the bed. He had not expected this silence.

Putting down his things — large suitcase, coat, cello — he went to sit on his bed. A thought came and went, or rather pieces of thoughts that didn’t cohere enough for him to present them to the darkening room. He lay down and in a minute fell into a deep sleep.

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