A Forty Year Kiss

28

On the final day of May, they moved her things out of the house she had lived in for so many years with Melissa and the girls. All her possessions, a lifetime of belongings, fit in the bed of his truck and one small trailer. On the curb, they left a pile of broken, sun-bleached, torn, stained, and rusted things. Old toys. Strollers. Threadbare furniture.

It was a matter of minutes before a neighbor stopped on the sidewalk and began sorting through the things, like a gull or a crow, scavenging the remnants of a misbegotten feast.

Moving on up? the old woman asked, pointing her chin at Charlie’s truck.

No, Vivian said. Just out. My daughter and granddaughters moved to Saint Paul.

Looks like you landed on your feet then.

Maybe, she allowed. Then, with conviction, and some pride, Yes. Yes, I did, actually.

The grass in the spare little front yard was vastly outnumbered by dandelions shining yellow. She stopped there, on the broken sidewalk, the woman still noisily rummaging through the pile behind her. The house suddenly looked tremendously small and sad. For the first time she noticed how the whole structure seemed to slump just slightly to one side. She could hear Charlie inside, whistling and humming as he swept.

She felt resolved. And more than that, beloved.