She did not answer.
A year after I returned, the pale blue house looked almost unchanged from the street.
But the basement was different.
We removed the cot, repaired the electrical outlets, installed proper lighting, and turned the space into storage and a small workshop. Mom insisted on keeping the old folding chair.
“Why?” I asked.
She ran a hand along its scratched metal back.
“To remember the difference between surviving somewhere and living there.”
On the anniversary of my return, we ate dinner on the porch.
Dad’s recovered watch sat on Mom’s wrist, ridiculously large on her.
“You know that’s a men’s watch,” I said.
“It was your father’s watch.”
“Fair point.”
She smiled.
Across the street, a moving truck backed into a driveway. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked. The evening smelled of cut grass and someone’s barbecue.
Nothing cinematic happened.
