Move

The air inside was warmer than it should’ve been, like the house had been holding its breath and finally let it out when I stepped in. My footsteps echoed louder than I remembered, every creak of the floor announcing me. I dropped my bag by the door out of habit, already knowing no one would call out asking why I dropped it there. Felt weird, coming back to a place that still knew me.

The smell hit me next- not strong, not fresh, but familiar. Grease and sugar and something faintly sweet, like vanilla hanging in the air. Made me think of Saturday mornings without asking permission. I closed the big door behind me- “close the big door, not just the screen”-hearing it the way it was always said- big door. I stood there longer than I needed to, one hand still on the knob, like moving too fast would disturb whatever was left of them in here.

The living room looked smaller. Or maybe I just took up more space now. The couch was still angled wrong, just like Daddy left it the last time he pushed it back to plug something in. Remote sitting on the arm like it had been placed there, and somebody would be coming right back. I almost called out, “I’m back,” the way I used to, halfway expecting a voice yelling back from the kitchen telling me to wash my hands first.

I didn’t.

Instead, I walked further in, slower this time, moving careful like the house might change if I moved too quickly or I might miss something.

That kitchen light over the table flickered once before settling, same as always. And there, on the stove, was Momma’s old cast iron skillet, sitting heavy on the burner.

I stopped.

It shouldn’t have been there. Or maybe it should. Nothing ever really left this house.

I reached out, touched the handle without thinking, and pulled my hand back quick. Still warm. Not hot. Just warm enough to feel like it had been used not too long ago, and Momma had just stepped away and would be back.

My chest tightened in a way I wasn’t ready for.

That skillet had seen everything. Cornbread with the crispy edges I used to fight for, cracklins that crunched under my teeth, candied yams sticky on our fingers, that had us standing too close to the stove, getting in the way just to “help,” even when we weren’t doing nothing but stealing pieces. I could hear Momma tapping the rim with her spoon, a soft metal-on-iron rhythm that meant something good was coming.

You used to hover, too, acting like you weren’t waiting for her to turn her back so you could snatch something first. Always acting like you wasn’t hungry, then reaching over me anyway.

“Move,” you’d say, nudging me with your elbow.

“I was here first,” I’d shoot back, already grabbing the best piece of whatever came out that pan before you could.

Momma would tap the skillet once, twice, like a warning. Not serious. Just enough to make us laugh and back up a little before creeping right back in.

But it wasn’t always like that.

One night, too late for all of us to still be up, the skillet sat in that same spot, oil gone cold, cornbread untouched in the pan. House loud in a different way. Voices sharp, breaking over each other, Daddy’s deeper, Momma’s cutting through like she wasn’t trying to be heard so much as done.

I remember standing by the fridge, pretending to be thirsty just so I could stay. I kept tracing the edge of the fridge handle, and there was a sticky smudge, like a thumbprint. The fridge humming filled the space between the voices.

You were at the table, quiet for once, spinning a pen in slow circles. I kept waiting for you to say something, anything. Some joke, some comment under your breath, something to make it feel normal again.

You didn’t.

You just kept your eyes down, like if you didn’t look up, it wasn’t happening.

Daddy threw a plate in the sink with the other dirty dishes and the crash sounded like they were trying to join in. Momma stood up slowly. Her chair dragging across the floor made me flinch more. Them sounds were louder than all of what they were saying.

At some point, it stopped. Not resolved. Just stopped. Done.

Momma turned back to the stove like muscle memory. Flipped the cornbread even though it didn’t need it, tapped twice.

Nobody said a word.

I didn’t realize until later that you got up from the table and left the kitchen before I did. Somehow, you went right by me, slipped out real quiet. I thought you just went to your room like always.

But now, standing here, I keep thinking… did you come back? Stand where I’m standing? I wonder if you touched the same handle, felt the same warmth, and didn’t say nothing about it either.

The skillet sat there, holding all of it. The good. The loud. The parts we never talked about again.

I wrapped my hand around the handle, slower this time. It felt steady. Solid.

“Move,” I said under my breath, almost smiling.

The kitchen didn’t answer.

I lifted the skillet off the burner, surprised by how heavy it was, like it had been waiting for someone strong enough to take it, or maybe just willing enough.

I held it for a second, listening to the quiet.

Then I turned, carrying it with me.

I paused at the doorway, the skillet hanging at my side, heavier now that I was about to leave with it. The house felt different behind me, not emptier, just… finished, like it got something I was only starting to. I glanced back at the couch still crooked, house quiet around me, kitchen light holding steady for once.

“I got it,” I said, not loud, not expecting anything back. Just enough to let it be true.

The big door clicked shut behind me, and this time, I didn’t wait on the other side of it.