The Still

The wind doesn’t howl through the window as it did before, there’s no cold blows rushing in anymore, we had it fixed. We don’t have to huddle up under fluffy blankets and sleep with our limbs intertwined to stay warm. The roof doesn’t leak either, I don’t have to put a bucket in the designated locations, but the stain beneath it, from when I wasn’t fast enough, when I forgot to empty a bowl, remains. It curves in the corners and has a dark brown shade to it. Sometimes I lay down on that floor, our wooden floor, I don’t know what wood, the wood that everyone has, that wood that has a slight orange to it, I lay down on that. And when I do I imagine I can still smell that smell from before, the old wetness, like forgotten laundry and a damp cold basement, I run my fingers over the stains and imagine they will come out dripping, they don’t, but the wood prickles my fingers with it small splinters, I pick at them afterwards, but I can never seem to get them all out. I noticed at some point, that everything had changed from before, before? Before he left. Everything is still, the fridge doesn’t whir like it used to, nor does the walls creek with the blows of wind, the sun doesn’t splay through the window, painting the rooms in gold.

I look outside, my living room window is big and clean, there’s no dust in the corners, no cobwebs, I can see the whole garden. I think it’s winter, or maybe late fall, it can’t be spring or summer, it’s too gray, too silent. All the leaves have fallen off the trees and bushes, and the grass has wilted, there’s no leaves to be seen though not on the ground where they should have fallen to their deaths. I have not removed them, and the wind has not made its presence in a long time, he must have done it. There’s something missing from the garden too, something that used to be there, a constant unchanging object, I cannot place it, only notice the absence, I forgot. One day I’ll look for it, I’ll put on my shoes and tie a nice bow, put on my jacket and my gloves, and then I’ll search in the shed which I know to be there somewhere out of my line of sight.

“What’s wrong mommy?”My son asks from behind me.

I don’t always notice when he’s there, his footsteps steps so quiet that even in the silence, I don’t hear them. He wasn’t there before, but now he’s sitting on the couch, I turn around, look briefly away from my landscape of empty branches and grayness. He’s sitting upright with his pajamas on, the lined ones with blue stripes, the neck folded perfectly, his brown hair is tucked neatly behind his ear, we should have given him a hair cut, and in his hand he holds his toothbrush.

“Wasn’t there something in the garden once?”I ask him.

“My trampoline! Daddy said it was time to pack it away, and he wouldn’t listen at all when I told him I still use it.” My son pouts a little, jutting his lip out.

I move over the noiseless floor, and sit down on the cushioned gray couch, I used to pick at loose threads that sprung from it, pulling until it snapped.

“Are you going to bed?”I ask, looking at his toothbrush and clothes.

“It’s almost my bedtime, will you help me to bed mommy?”

I look outside again, it may not be sunny, but it is without a doubt the daytime, a white light paints the outside, as if the sun is covered beneath thin clouds, packed away.

“It’s day, won’t you play?” I look around, where did his toys go? His race tracks with tens of colorful cars, his dinosaurs he stomped with, made roar.

“But I'm so tired mommy, please help me.”He pleads and takes my hand.

His hand isn’t hot nor cold, and his skin doesn’t feel like skin, it feels like a dull rock, yet it does take my hand, and lead me to its room. Through the hall, with its strangely empty walls, pictures hung there before. Before. My son opens the door to his room, my hand still in his, he’s left his toothbrush behind, or maybe he had already used it before coming to get me. I always stay with him as he falls asleep, sometimes I’ll read him a story, sometimes we’ll talk, sing a song, whatever he wants. The blinds are closed off, and his bedside lamp is glowing faintly, it lights up his room slightly, just enough for me to see the boxes.

“What’s in the boxes?”I ask him, it’s his room after all.

“My toys,”he sighs,”Daddy packed them away.”

He crawls under the duvet, and I tuck him in, the duvet feels light, like it’s going to levitate and leave his body cold, I tuck it in an extra time to be sure. My son is looking up at me, and I try to look back, but something makes it hard for me to look at his face.

“When will daddy be back?”He asks.

“I don’t know, soon, I hope.”I reply, I feel compelled to speak the truth.

“Will you sing for me?”

I nod and sing, the same song I always sing, I don’t remember the title, nor do I remember the lyric until I sing it, then it flows. I look at him as I sing, his brown hair and freckled cheeks, I smile, it feels gentle, loving, to be here with him, important despite the repetition. I caress his hair and as I do, he opens the eyes he had shut before, and I remember why I do not look at my son anymore.

His eyes are not the same as before, in place of his deep brown eyes, sit two blue ones, icy blue, matte, there’s no shine to them, no sparkle. Every time I see his eyes, I am reminded that this is not my son.