Pray You Undo This Button

The key slides into the lock, and she turns the knob. She’s never opened the door like this, it’s always been opened for her. She stops just inside the threshold, almost waiting for him to greet her, give her that kiss on the cheek, sometimes a hug. Her eyes are cast down, then closed, holding a tear, then letting it go. She turns on the hall light. The oak floor gives off a shine, he pointed that out the first time they visited. Hardwood, just like home, he had said.

She walks into the living room, the hand-me-down couch the only large piece of furniture. A square black trunk acts as a coffee table, a beer can and bowl of pretzels on top. She takes a step, to pick them up, to take them to the kitchen, to clean the mess, but this is his home, this was his home. The movers will be here tomorrow. The church will take care of it all.

She brings in a deep breath, and moves into the bedroom. Even with the cover on, the bed sags in the middle, it was his old bed, he didn’t want to give it up. She is surprised by the neatness, only a few pieces of clothing here and there. She moves around the bed to the closet, and opens it. His tuxedo, for his orchestra performances, and the tweed jacket he got from his grandfather. No. His navy blue blazer, and grey wool slacks. She picks them off the hanger, carefully folds them and turns to leave. Will they still fit him now that he’s- and she cannot finish the thought. She sits on the edge of the bed, and wonders if she has the strength to get back up. Her lungs and her sides, they hurt from so much crying, she is too tired to cry any more, instead the pain simply seeps through her eyelids.

The moment passes. It has before, and it will again. She gets up.

In the kitchen, above the table, taped to the wall, is a newspaper article. Thanksgiving Day Tragedy Kills One, the headline reads. On the floor is a crumpled piece of paper. She puts the clothes on the table, and sits in the chair, just off-center to avoid the duct tape covering the tear in the red vinyl seat cover. She bends over and picks up the paper. Its edge is torn, and all the writing has been crossed out or erased, but for a few words. She recognizes the handwriting, it is her son’s, and she recognizes the words, from the article, the article taped to the wall.

“-a true hero, through and through-“

She remembers the last time they talked.

Why didn’t he come out? What was he doing? I got you and Jeannie out of the fire, why couldn’t he come out?

I don’t know, she had replied.

Why did God do this? Why you and me and Jeannie, but not Dad? Why? Oh God, why?

I don’t know, hon, I don’t know.

Perhaps I’ll ask him. Perhaps I’ll just ask him. Goodbye, Mom. I love you.

She stands, picking the jacket and slacks off the table, smoothing them. She looks around the kitchen, the cupboards painted the same white as the walls. Her son cooked his own meal for the first time here. And for the last time. Yet the sink is empty, the dishes washed and put away. There is nothing more for her here.

Goodbye, Mom. I love you.

She walks to the front door, and turns off the light. The apartment stills holds a small part of him, and so she tarries, listening, breathing, remembering.

Finally, she steps outside, closes the door. The key slides into the lock, and she turns it until she feels the lock set. She slides the key out.

Goodbye, son. I love you.

Her footsteps echo in the empty hallway.