The Empty House

The house is mostly quiet now. There is an eerie silence there, a silence I’d forgotten since the kids were born. The dogs come running when I return from work, overjoyed by my presence, especially 50-pound Hazel who sometimes crashes into my knees, unable to control her unabashed joy. They follow me as I change clothes, shower, use the restroom.

The couch pillows no longer need fluffed or picked up from the floor, rather they sit in a perfect row like copper-colored soldiers ready to march.

The kitchen stays remarkably clean. There are few big meals to cook, fewer still to clean up from. My son’s cooking efforts seldom need mopped up after. The cereal stays in the box. The milk is never drunk from the container. The refrigerator’s supplies dwindle slowly from full to simply a bit less full. I throw away produce because it is spoiled. The yogurt cartons seem to multiply. I buy less than I can ever remember since our home was always the home for every lonely kid who needed a home-cooked meal.

I can’t believe how little trash we now accumulate. I used to wonder what the neighbors thought when they carried one or two small bags to the tree lawn, while I carted down box after box of pizza containers, bag after bag of trash. The recycle container is only half full.

Remarkably, the beds don’t need made. The sinks are clean, devoid of hair and toothpaste clumps. The floors don’t need mopped nearly as often, and the carpets are devoid of lint. The drawers are half empty, not perched at half mast with underwear and socks spilling forth. The pillowcases look neatly creased, sitting square on the bed. I don’t trip on shoes when I go downstairs midway through the night.

My son’s closet is clean, for the most part. The clothing he left behind is either too big or too old for him to care about. His sister’s floor is empty. No shoes or jeans or makeup containers litter her space. Her vanity in the bathroom is empty, a sight I thought I’d never see.

The basement TV area where endless movie nights have been held is quiet now. The movies are stacked by the set, neatly filed away in individual slots. The counter by the bar is polished clean. The toilet seats are down.

For a long while four cars littered our street. Two old clunkers the kids once drove, and two new models they would each take to school. I promised the neighbors that the street would soon be free. I didn’t lie.

When I come into the drive, I can’t believe the cars are missing. Grandpa’s old Caddy. My daughter’s little Echo. The two newer rentals.

I walk into a dark house. My heart fills with despair.

I try to relish that I can pick up what I want to eat for less than ten dollars. That the TV is now changed to the channels and programs that I enjoy. That I no longer have to fight with the kids about how disgustingly rude Family Guy is or how loud and annoying the horror flicks are that they choose for Movie Night. I watch Nancy Grace, the show they despise. Hailey, our Bichon, curls up by my feet. I sip decaf iced tea and look out the window at the moon. I feel like I live on another planet.