“Crystel’s carrying the dining room table out of the house!” Jody said, a note of panic in her voice. “Now the chairs!”
Quietly, I felt proud of Crystel. She was going ahead with gumption, emptying our house while we were in Florida, not asking permission, not making a fuss. Jody kept tabs on the coming and goings through the Blink footage, watching life continue without us. In what felt like solidarity with her alarm, I said, “Yeah… she could have told us before she did it.”
“Well, you did tell her to give everything away,” Jody said, somewhat accusingly.
“Yeah,” I said. “I did say that didn’t I?”
I imagined walking into our house when we returned in May and not seeing our dining room table. Juan wouldn’t be assembling a Lego set or Crystel stitching at the table. Our final board game had already happened.
The two girls turned the table sideways to fit through the door, and the leaf extension opened awkwardly.
“We better remind her to get the table leaves from the basement,” Jody said.
“You’d think she’d know that” I said, cocking my head studying the video clip. The extension fell completely open now. It was like watching a movie reel, silent, irreversible.
“Yeah,” Jody replied. “You’d think so… but.”
Later, we got a photo from Crystel. She was sitting at the table in its new home. She had gifted the table to her friend who was moving into a new apartment.
Quickly, Jody texted a list: These are the things I want from the house—do not give away. Heart-shaped end table from her mother. Charging side table in living room. Lounge chair the cats sit in.
Our house will go on the market by summer. Juan and Crystel are turning twenty-four this year still living at home. Juan has a plan to move into an apartment with his girlfriend. Crystel’s plans are fluid. It’s as if the house is still raising the kids, negotiating garbage duty, washing dishes, cleaning house.
After the house sale, Jody and I plan on living in our RV. Maybe sooner than expected, judging by how quickly our household items are leaving through the front door.
“I think it’s a good idea,” I said to Jody, “that Crystel is helping give things away. With the dining room table gone, there’s no pretending we’re not leaving.”
Twenty-five years, we lived in that house. The only home Juan and Crystel knew. They are dismantling their childhood while still living inside it. Crystel has sewn her t-shirts into a quilt; Juan is going through his sweatshirts one by one.
Maybe this is how it happens. Not with one final goodbye, but piece by piece. A table. A chair. A room that echoes a little more than it used to.
For years we filled that house with noise, laughter, birthdays, school and neighborhood parties. Arguments and apologies.
Now they are emptying it.
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