Page 20 of Remain

I noticed everything.

If this were different, if the timing weren’t what it is, if grief weren’t standing between us like a third presence, I know exactly what I’d do.

I’d step into her space slowly, give her time to feel it before it happened. I’d lift her chin just enough to make her look at me, really look at me and I’d kiss her like she hasn’t been kissed in years.

I’d remind her that wanting doesn’t mean losing control.

I’d take my time. Days, if she let me. I’d take her somewhere quiet, to one of the cabins I built with my own hands, away from this town, away from expectations, and let her remember what it feels like to be wanted without conditions. I’d have my way with her for days on end until we both needed to come up for air.

Instead, I keep my hands to myself. I keep my voice even. I let her leave without asking where she’s going or how long she’s staying.

Savannah didn’t come back for me. It’s clear.

She came back for her mother, for paperwork and for true endings.

I understand endings. I’ve built enough houses to know that what makes something last isn’t how it starts but it’s what’s left standing after the dust settles.

I don’t know if Savannah will stay. I don’t know if she’ll leave after Christmas, head back to New York and never look back.

8

Savannah

My childhood homesettles differently at night. It’s not quieter. It’s heavier. It feels like it is aware of what is about to come and it is holding its breath along with me.

I lock the front door out of habit, even though there’s no one coming, then lean my forehead against the wood for a moment longer than necessary. My coat stays on. I don’t bother turning on all the lights. The glow from the kitchen is enough to keep the dark from feeling too final.

Boxes line the walls, stacked neatly and unapologetically, as if they know exactly what they’re holding and are waiting for me to be brave enough to remember it too. Aunt Carol has been thorough. The practical things are already gone, furniture wrapped, drawers emptied, and closets thinned to hangers and dust.

What’s left is intentional. It’s left for me.

I move toward the dining room first, drawn to the smallerpile set off to the side. I kneel on the floor and lift the lid of the top box.

Paper. So much paper.

Cards, folded and refolded until the creases are soft. Programs from events I don’t even remember attending. Notes written in my mother’s looping handwriting with everything from reminders, to recipes, to lists of things she meant to do and probably never did.

I pick one up at random.

Savy,

Don’t forget to call the electrician.

Love you.

She always signed everything like that. As if love needed to be named out loud or it might slip away.

I set the note aside and reach deeper into the box. A stack of notebooks comes next. Her notebooks. The covers are worn, the corners are worn away completely. I know better than to open them yet. Some things feel too much like trespassing, even now.

The second box is heavier, packed to the brim with photo albums. The old kind, with thick plastic pages that crackle when you turn them and get caught on the middle rings. I sit back on my heels and open the first one.

There I am at six, missing two front teeth, holding a doll I don’t remember asking for. There’s my mom behind the camera, reflected faintly in the glass of a window, smiling like she already knows how fast this goes.

I flip the page.

The day I left this town with my car packed too full, and my mom standing in the driveway with her arms crossed like she was bracing herself against something invisible.

I close the album.