Wincing from her worsening arthritis, Vicky knew that the sentimental trek up the steep hill to her home of 34 years would be her last. Where once she had herded dawdling toddlers or carted groceries and gifts, now she only had the strength to drag memories.

Her husband Terry watched her from the bottom of the hill. He was too weak to wheel up with her to judge the new owner’s treatment of their aging beauty and too shy to park closer to their former home. When she reached the neighbor’s yard, Vicky hesitated. Anxious not to be caught snooping, she crouched down and pretended to lace her shoe.

In the dreary mist, their old place loomed over the street, casting a shadow on the mossy front lawn, still brave with dandelions. Her favourite lilac had been pruned aggressively, the front stoop no longer lurched, and the red maple bush, which for years had threatened to take over the yard, had been put in its place.

Their new apartment, 1/4 the size, clean as an ocean washed shell, easy to navigate but raw of memories, made her feel light. Here, though buoyed by the echo of laughing children rolling down the front hill, Vicky felt faded with age. She turned to see her husband upright in his chair his face concerned but hopeful. He pointed at the darkening clouds, smiled and waved at her to hurry back.

~ Melodie Corrigall

2012

Originally published at: http://bostonliterarymagazine.com/sum12quick.html#sum12moving.html