chores while housesitting

For the month she's been gone, I've been driving my mom's car. Somehow, I almost feel fifteen again. If only I knew how to add to the ambiance. Nostalgia is a fog right in front of me, but when I reach out to touch it, it clears. Sometimes I wish I didn't delete my old playlists in a fit of embarrassing insecurity; I want to know what I used to listen to. 

When I walk through the side door, it doesn't feel like the house has been mostly empty for a month. There are dishes in the sink. Laundry fills the basket by the couch. The dogs look at me with an expectant but somehow solemn expression. The only evidence of the emptiness is the silence. When I used to live here, I couldn't hear myself breathe. I take my shoes off at the door and pause, noticing the new habit that's foreign to these floors.

I open the door to what used to be my room, wondering if I'm allowed in. My things get set on the floor instead of the bed. The walls that used to be blue are now a warm gray. I wonder when Alexandra decided to paint. Objectively, it looks better. Still, there's something off. Opening the closet, I see clothes that used to be mine. I do not know whether they were stolen, hand-me-downs, or left behind in the chaos I so adamantly ran from.

There isn't a way to know. It doesn't matter anymore, anyway. 

I go to the room that used to be Omar's and I open the door, as if my older brother would still be there. He hasn't lived here in years. I move to the right and open that door looking for my little brothers, as if they would still be there. I walk to the room my little sisters used to share, as if they would still be there. I don't open my parents' bedroom door; I know they are not there. 

In my head, I call each of the clownfish 'Nemo' out of some immature habit as I feed the fish in the saltwater tank. I fill the dogs' food bowls and water. They don't rush to their bowls. Strange dogs, I think. I pet one cat, two cats, three cats, and hope that the fourth cat will come home soon; I get worried. I take comfort in the fact I saw her out in the pasture yesterday. She can't be too far. 

When I go outside, I first check the cows' water. I remember the last batch we had, that I bottle fed with my dad. But these cows now look at me like I'm a coyote. I hold alfalfa in my hand, and they still step back. I bristle and let the green fall to into the earth. As I turn my back, they come closer, but I'm already shutting the gate. 

Water splashes out furiously as I turn on the hose, soaking the only pair of pants I brought with me. Remembering the old clothes in the closet, I decide it won't be an issue. I fill up the water for the chickens and check on their food. Taking a metal wire basket, I head off to collect the eggs. 

The lid to each of the nesting boxes is still just as heavy. I hold it up with one hand while I reach in to gather the eggs. One of the big red hens watches me as I get closer to her nest. When I reach down under her, she pecks my hand, and it hurts. I scold her for a moment before wondering what I must look like to her: a giant hand descending from the sky to steal away something precious. I leave her the egg; there are plenty of others. 

There were plenty of others.

Walking into the shop, I set the basket of eggs down on the ground as I crouch. The thirteen chicks are peeping incessantly at me. I open the door of their tiny coop and they scramble. Shushing them gently, I refill their water and food. I stay there for a while, crouched, watching them eat. They never stop peeping. I look over to my right, to the staircase up to the loft. 

As I tread up the staircase of the loft, I tell myself I'm not afraid of the dark. I frown when I find the door at the top wide open. Closing the door behind me, I flick on the light switch. Like always, they take a moment to turn on, lighting the room and illuminating the pool table. I drift toward my dad's pool cues, his cue still untouched from when I scolded my sister and put it back in its place. 

Turning around, I see the pristine blue felt of the table marred by white specks. I scratch the surface of one of them: bird poop. Now there's white specks in my vision for a moment before I take a breath and begin my attempt to clean it off, cursing whoever it was that left the door wide open for a bird to get in. My brows are pulled together as I pat, blot, scrub, and soak the felt of the table. 

But it's no use. The table is stained. It probably needs to be refelted. I scrub harder, feeling stupid as tears begin tumbling from my eyes, feeling thankful that no one is around to see. I almost feel nine again, wearing my new white shirt to go huckleberry picking even though my dad told me it'd get stained. I remind myself this time it's not my fault. 

It's not my fault. 

When I walk back to the house, I enter through the front door this time. I pass by my parents' bedroom and pause. My hand hovers above the door knob before I pull away. I know that the metal knob will be cold under my fingertips. I know what the room used to smell like, and it probably still smells the same. The bed is probably still unmade. The photo frame is probably still face down. Everything must be the way it was the last time I walked through that door. 

I decide I don't want to remember.

I decide I don't want to know.

I walk back to the room that used to be mine, and I sleep on the floor.