So I shouldn’t have to write about my feelings after this weekend. I shouldn’t have to explain what I’m thinking about family, illness, separation and change.
Instead, I can write about the echo. I can tell you that the house I grew up in didn’t always have an echo. I guess that’s because the chairs and beds and tables always absorbed my sound before. But I didn’t notice until now. Didn’t realize until yesterday that the house itself, when empty, just takes my voice and tosses it back to me.
I can write about the emptiness of my open hand as I tossed the diary aside, into a pile of old books, as if it, too, was forgotten fiction, written by someone who isn’t me. I can tell you how the dust from the diary’s cover remained in the grooves of my skin, and how rubbing my fingertips together only deepened its resting place.
And maybe then I won’t have to worry that you’ve never been there, discarding the final remains of my childhood. Maybe I can just hope to offer a glimpse of how it feels.