I
was the last one to play the now-charred black and white keys. No tune will
ever emerge from it ever again.
I
was the last one to open the door to a room filled with several things: couches
and a catalog-covered coffee table, a mountain of coats in the corner next to a
piano.
I
was the last one to walk across the partially spotted carpet. A floor with an
explanation or story for each stain.
I
was the last. Who am I to deserve this claim?
They
were not my coats. They were not my memories. It was not my piano.
It
was not my fault. Although, I cannot help the feeling of ‘what if?’.
Flashing
lights and questions.
An
empty coat rack. As if it were winter and every member of the family was using
their winters best to fight off the bitter cold.
This
bitterness, however, could not be avoided. The reality was as real as it could
be.
No
blame was placed, but instead, the family rises above the ashes. Refusing to
let reality’s disease to leave them bitter. Not alone, but together. A
combination of their memories is all that remains. And I know… I am not the
last one.
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