Long Day

Night comes. The sun says goodbye—

Night comes. The sun says goodbye—

I accompanied my father to his best friend’s ancestral home today to say goodbye. It was recently sold to a religious community that plans to make it a lodging house of sorts. Oh, but there are so many memories. I found my throat closing up. Regret, a gentle fellow, followed me everywhere I go. We found ourselves looking at old furniture, trying to see what we can save before everything is given away.

It was sad, being there for the last time. My sister remembers, wistfully, how the house has this quiet, looming presence. The housekeeper, who has always been there (but would have no choice but to leave, too), said that it’s only because she was a child at the time. Everything seems bigger to a child.

We wandered the rooms. Remembering. My heart was heavy.

On the way home, my sister, currently studying to be a doctor, vowed to buy the house back someday. My father sighs, wishing out loud, if only we had the money today. I would buy it in a heartbeat.

I used to think I would live there when I’m older. Sigh.

—and the streets are bathed with light.

—and the streets are bathed with light.

It is almost midnight. I am eating stale bread. My father is snoring in his chair. Might be time for bed.

Good night, M.

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