The van, yawning doors clipped to the sides, steel ramps extended; a receptacle, waiting.

Then rolled on handcarts, carried in tired arms, the house disgorged of things: A refrigerator no longer cold, just a box; books and boxes, toys and trinkets, beds, couches, the tools of who we are; the doors flipped closed; nothing is left behind.

A house is space, air and light inside walls, nothing more.

We transport all we brought. The glimmering, scattered trace, specks of us across time and distance, lodged in protected places, carried.

We pass through space, wrapped in our shield, launched and spun past Jupiter and Neptune, twisting toward the endless everything seeking the dust of ourselves, the who we are changed by light years.

We touch, a breath shared; a scent, a taste remains. Nothing is left behind.

The silk of your hand in mine.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I am the author of the award-winning Frank Nagler Mystery series. "The Swamps of Jersey (2014); "A Game Called Dead" (2016) -- a Runner-Up in the 2016 Shelf Unbound Indie Author Contest; and "The Weight of Living" (2017) -- First Place winner for Mysteries in the Royal Dragonfly Book Awards Contest.
This entry was posted in Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.