Write

The garage was stacked to the ceiling with boxes, the U-Haul ready to cart them away on that windy Tuesday morning. I was wearing sweatpants and my hair was tied up in a bun, ready to move the hell out of there. I had only lived in that white suburban house for two years. I remember the day I moved in it was mid-February. That was two years ago. Then it became May 19th, Tuesday, and windy. I held back tears as I drove away from that house, the one we were supposed to live in after the wedding, raise children in. It was so windy, and my hair blew wildly with my window down; I stared at the room which we used to sleep in, and looked up toward the sky, and hoped you were doing just that. I couldn't stay in that bed, in that room, on that street, where we both used to sleep. But I hoped you were resting, anyway.