Later in the night, I inspect the house and notice the things she never did—dust that collected in the corners of window frames until it hardened over like dirt. Worse, even: the bedroom I painted on my own, one Saturday when Mom and Dad were out. I remember I’d found a can of Swiss Coffee in the basement, expecting a dark, thick brown color and getting white instead. That didn’t stop me. I drenched the walls fast—painted over the existing nails and dead bugs and all the crusty-unknowns that had lived their whole lives on the moldings. It didn’t feel right, scrubbing them away, telling them where they ought to be.
And when Dad saw what I’d done—the carpeted floors, speckled with dots of cream—he sighed a slow sigh and asked me to clean things up. “Before mom sees, at least.”
I’d rearranged the room to show it off, to give him a tour, but he was gone before I had the chance to offer. I remember standing there for a long time, watching my own shadow loom at the top of the stairs. Even now, when the moon is bright enough, I swear I still see it there, hovering.