death of a home

My father still lives in the house I grew up in. It's in Forney, a small town that seems to have expanded exponentially every time I go back, rural fields and pastures growing up into miles of faceless suburbs. There was a new traffic light on the farm road that leads home, there's a Wal-Mart where there were acres of grass and tilled earth.

He had redecorated the living room, clearing out the furniture that sat there fifteen years and replacing it with new leather sofas and a flatscreen television. I talked about work and my words seemed hollow in my ears, echoing in the space where my mom's furniture had been. Maybe he really does miss her now that she's across town in her own place - I'll probably never really know.

We split a pizza while my brother watches television, a dim reflection of the ghosts from ten years ago. Our dog is deaf now, sweet old creature sniffs around the table for scraps and my dad gives him a crust. Around his paws and muzzle he's got white hair now, his liquid eyes seem to reflect his age. My dad tells me he hopes he won't have to put him down, and I struggle with unexpected tears pondering the poor beast's mortality. Fifteen years is a long time to be outside.

Before I go I always visit my old room. The smell of the closet dredges up old memories. A feeling of sadness seems to cover the rooms, muting the colors of carpets and painted walls, haunting me with the weight of growing up and knowing there is no going back. Today I return home with a stack of old paperbacks and a feeling of loss.