Repentance

Something shifted in the air when Ethan opened the door to his home that morning, and not just the temperature. The air outside was cold and blistering while the air inside was toasty and smelled strongly of cinnamon, yes, but there was more to it than that. The air inside his home always had a certain comfort to it. A comfort the young boy didn't get at school, or at the playground, or especially not the doctor's office. Beyond the front door was an exclusive comfort, a sturdy barrier where all problems, large and miniscule, stayed away until he was ready to face them on his own terms.

Sharing the barrier with him were faces and voices so familiar that second nature would be an understatement to describe them – perhaps fourth or fifth. When he returned home from school on those frigid, tired afternoons, his sister would be on the computer, her fingers drilling like jackhammers on the tumbledown keyboard, an amused but serious look in her eyes. His father would be napping on the bed, his snoring so loud that it would awake even the neighbors who were napping as well in the first place. His mother would be watching TV if his little brother wasn't playing a video game, or in the kitchen if his little brother wasn't getting something to eat.

The tranquility of the home could scarcely be described. The familiarity of it could barely be explained. It was where he learned to walk. It was where he learned to talk. It was where he learned things that would eventually become fourth nature, like the wrongs of drunk driving. It was not far from where he learned to breathe.

It was where he learned his strengths and his flaws. It was where he learned how to love, who to love, and who and what to hate. Perhaps it wasn't always perfect, there were mishaps and arguments and bad times abound, but when it was all said and done, all he ever wanted to remember was the good over the awful.

The worst times started with a scream in the night. "He's not breathing!" Mom shouted. He turned his head and for the first time ever, the woman he once knew as invincible had been brought to mortal tears. "He's not breathing..."

After his father passed away, the days seemed to glide by like stars in the night sky – all know what they are, but few remember a specific one. Ethan learned to drive, graduated high school by the skin of his teeth, then went to college. From there, he married, bounced back and forth between jobs until he found one that he truly and dearly loved. Funny enough, the woman doing the interview didn't seem concerned with what he wore or who he sat at lunch with during freshman year of high school.

His sister was the next to die. Car accident, thanks to a certain young man who so decided he would drive in the dark of night after drinking away the pains of school bullying. He visited a few times a year with his mother, until he called one day only to learn of her death from a heart attack at age seventy-nine. The torturous pain of their deaths was enough to bring him to his knees. When he learned of their fates, he felt bootless and resigned. As if there was nothing he could do but cry.

The old house was now abandoned, rundown and ready to crumble at the seams. The white paint that was once fresh and vibrant was now wilted and sogged. The front door which once opened noiselessly now opened with a piercing screech, perhaps a cry for help. For this old house would soon be demolished, and this was the last opportunity for Ethan to see it in all of it's unique glory.

Spiders crawled across the mucky ceiling. The bathtub was coated with an unhealthy yellow tinge brought upon by soap scum. Ethan's old bedroom was now an abandoned office, littered with trash, lingered by an odorous smell.

The room where both his parents hearts gave out was the only room that looked about the same. The empty squares where their favorite family pictures once hung were still there. The minuscule holes in the wall left over from stapling posters still remained. On the countertop, Ethan could still see the crumbs of toasted cinnamon rolls, Mom's favorite snack.

Ten more years glided by. Ethan's wife was long dead. The only people left he considered family were a daughter and several grandchildren; at age ninety-three, this was just enough to keep him alive, to keep him going longer than most men even dreamed of. But just as every tree must fall, just as every book must close, his story was coming to an end.

He stood in the depths of the crowded cemetery, letting the young wind have its way with his ancient skin and bones. He remembered the comfortable feeling of entering his family home as a young boy, and contrasted it with the cold valley of death he knew would soon be his final resting abode.

He looked up to the ashen clouds and lurking moon. And despite the nearness of death, he couldn't help but smile.