Mother B
The house on the hill is silent, it is still. The warmth that radiated through the walls of the old house, has now evaporated and the floors creak louder than ever before. I slowly climb the wooden steps that bow beneath my small nine-year-old feet. The screen door moaning as we all file in one by one. Her laughter, gone. I use to hear her laughing from the backside of the house, in the depths of the kitchen as she cooked warm and welcoming matriarch food. And I can see her belly moving up and down as she smiles from ear to ear, always elated to see us. But today, there is no sound, no smell. The mountains filter in clouds and shuffle in a soft rain, matching my sadness. The only sound is an adult, talking quietly in the dining room. Everyone gathered, crowded around 6 old oak chairs, discussing the details. My brain jumbles the sounds into uninteresting mumbles. I have not one care for what they are saying. I stop right past the front door. Her bedroom to my left. I can still smel