C.E. Phillippi

The silence in this house has a different weight in the afternoons. It isn’t just the absence of sound; it is a physical thing that settles into the corners and pulls at my hem. I stood in the nursery today (the room with the peeling floral wallpaper that smells like damp earth and old sugar) and watched the sun crawl across the floorboards. I remember when the light used to feel warm on my skin. Now, it only highlights the way the dust moves through me.

I saw the mother again. She was holding a stack of folded linens; she stopped right in front of the hallway mirror and touched her hair. For a second, I stepped closer. I wanted to see if our reflections could occupy the same silvered space. She shivered (the way they always do when I forget to keep my distance) and the linens slipped from her grip. I watched them fall. They didn’t make a sound when they hit the rug; they just slumped there like tired ghosts of things that used to be useful.

There is a restlessness in the walls today. The House on Chas Ross Road feels like it is holding its breath. I can hear the pipes humming deep behind the plaster; I can feel the vibration of the children running in the yard. They are so loud and so full of color. I try to remember the color of my own laughter. I think it was the same shade as the peonies by the gate, but every time I reach for the memory, it thins out like smoke. I am left with nothing but the blue of my dress and the heavy, quiet knowledge that I am the only one who remembers what this house used to be.