Today I walked through the now-empty childhood rooms of sisters. The blond one, the brown one, the red one; all three are gone from the house, presumably for good.
There was once a day when all three lived with motherbrotherfather in a house full of hustle and bustle. The house is full of silence now. The sisters taught, teased, tortured, tantrumed, terrorized, tricked, and treated.
"Stop playing the piano!"
"I didn't tell you you could borrow my shirt!"
"Do you want to play Utah-in-a-Box?"
"Did you kiss him?"
These sisters' voices still echo through the now empty rooms, melancholy with the abandonment, but hopeful for the retained memories. The rooms contain smells, forgotten notes, discarded clothes, fading pictures, unwanted wedding presents, dress-up clothes, a collection of make-up, gifts too nice to carry around, a guitar, a set of golf clubs. These rooms are full of things, evidence of the vibrant and beautiful girls that once lived there; but the rooms seem empty without the girls.
Can a room feel?
If it could, these rooms would feel lonely.