Visits are different now. They live in the same house, but something has changed.
Every time I leave, I take a memento. Once it was an old family photo, one I’d never seen. Another time, a candy jar that used to sit on the kitchen table. How many times I’d lifted the lid of that jar, exploring its contents with child-like wonder.
Now they give me little keepsakes and hugs. Their eyes speak of secrets I don’t want to know. “Someday,” they say.
I’ll sit in his chair. I’ll open her music box and bittersweet memories will fill the room.