All he takes with him is what fits into his car. The rest of
his old life is piled in heaps by the curb. He did keep the handmade chitarra
and pettine, the 50mm ravioli mould
and the olivewood drying racks. All gifts from her grandmother, who taught him
the art of pasta only months before her heart gave out.
He walks the tiled floors and wooden stairs one last time,
and smiles at the small clumps of dog hair. He could never seem to sweep up all
the molt, but always thought it made the house a home. He wonders if the new
tenants will keep the floor clean.
He passes the guest bedroom and stops in the hall. The door
to the master is halfway open. It is empty, has been since last summer. Essentially,
anyway. No need to see it again. He knows it’s time to leave.
-For DB
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