“I’m home!” I toss my keys onto the marble kitchen table. The echo of metal on stone dies around me. Too late, I remember I’ve announced my arrival to a house and not a home. I take inventory of the rooms: uncleaned dishes in the sink; a leash draped on the back door handle like a vine of poison ivy; a bed that still holds the shape of a sleeping body; a dry water bowl calcified like a fossil; and a food dish I haven’t found the will to empty after two months. It’s alive with a body of swarming ants.
By Kip Knott