Moths float out from behind an opened, warped door. I push my face into your clothes, hung heavy like pearls in an antique shop. Stale and familiar, the scent follows me like a lost little bee. It buzzes even after I leave.
Hopscotch down the hallway to find dead crickets in the bathtub. Scuffed wallpaper camouflages a cobweb. Metallic vines curve around bursts of petals. I’m certain you chose this pattern, but I don't know.
Memories are few. I fill in the holes with honey and arrowheads. Indian feathers and an old brooch. Piles of pie. Did you love to bake pie?
Games of bridge on that old, scratched table top with a musty deck of Bicycle cards. Each deck a photo album of your face.
Your raisined face. I remember holding it in my hands. “This aint a walk for old womans.” And out the door I go. Empty handed and independent.