(originally published
November 1, 2015)
Another year, another
Boston Book Festival. Only this year was different in that I decided my time
was better spent working on my own writing, rather than going to hear other
authors talk about their published works. I was sorry not to go, but this fall
has been a whirlwind. So much so that I’ve even been neglecting this blog a
bit…but all’s well, and moving onward. The fourth novel is well underway, and
I’m preparing a short story for submission to an anthology. But I participated
in BBF in one small way, by writing a story for their One City, One Story
program, where they invited writers to tell a flash fiction story about what
home means to them. Here’s what I sent them.
A keychain shouldn’t
be empty of keys, Callie thought as she placed hers on the bare wooden
floor. The sunlight glinted off the various trinkets that found their way onto
the rings over the years. Practical things like the tiny flashlight and bottle
opener, and the fanciful, such as the silver-and-shell seahorse pendant from a
trip to Mexico, and the enameled black heart, emblazoned with Emily Strange’s
face and the words“Bad Girl Gone Worse” over a spiderweb.
Callie snapped a photo of the bereft keychain. “We’re
officially homeless,” she said.
With the photo snapped and uploaded to Instagram with a
poignant comment, Callie surveyed the empty room. The moving truck idled by the
curb. Shafts of sunlight lengthened along the polished pine floor.
Callie couldn’t fight the emotional storm that descended.
Reels of memories played, but one in particular brought tears to her eyes.
“I’ll never forget that moment—after the closing and this
place was truly mine. It was empty and sunny, just like this. Diva the Queen of
Wonder Dogs and Best Witch’s Familiar Ever was with me. It was her first time
seeing the place. She ran through all the rooms and skidded to a halt right
here to relax in the sun. Missing her still breaks my heart.”
Kissing her head, Jack pulled her in for a hug. “I know. I’m
sorry. We can get a new dog after we settle into the new house.”
“It’s not that,” Callie said with a despondent sniff. “There
are so many memories here. I’m happy about the house, but this place is a whole
era.”
“A new era awaits.” His squeeze comforted her. “Come on. The
movers are waiting.”
She said goodbye to twenty-five years as they drove through
Somerville. The store-front ghosts of the past appeared in her mind’s eye. Disc
Diggers and Someday Café in Davis Square; Arsenic and Old Lace in Porter
Square; WordsWorth and the Tasty at Harvard. At least Bob Slate’s was resurrected, Callie thought as they
continued to drive.
“To think people used to make fun of me for living in Davis
Square,” Callie said. “And now it’s hipster central and exorbitantly
expensive.”
Jack reached out with one hand to caress her neck. “Hey,
we’re only a couple towns over now. We can still go to our favorites anytime. I’m
sure it will be hip where we’re moving someday, too.”
Callie laughed. “Someday. That town has a way to go before
anyone calls it ‘cool.’ Feels like the end of the universe at the moment.”
Jack laughed and turned on the music. As if on cue to summon
her muse, Kate Bush, Nick Cave, and other prophets of the bygone era of her
twenties conjured deeper memories. Maudlin sentiments lured like a will-o-wisp.
Remnants of snow banks from a month’s worth of blizzards clung
to the curbs—filthy and battered sentinels of one of the harshest winters in
recent memory. Spring’s warmth was slow to start, but the densely packed snow
showed its age with deepening pits, revealing humanity’s wake—pollution and
litter.
When they pulled up to the driveway of their new home,
long-time residents pulled their curtains aside to peer at them. The moving
truck hadn’t caught up yet. Callie got out of the car, smiling as she thought
of the day the real estate agent showed them the house. They had barely crossed
the threshold when both Jack and Callie felt that this was their new home. She
opened the door and smelled the memories of the family that had left. Years of
cooking, favorite colognes, and the mustiness of old things lingered.
“It’s all about the past,” Callie said. “That’s where home
really is. Everyone’s too busy to notice it in the present. When you think of
home, it’s always in the past.”
