The house looked familiar and reassuring. It was six years since Aimee had last been here, and yet it looked exactly the same as when she used to stop by to see grandma right after grandad died. When she was fourteen. And then less often though highschool.
It was a blue Victorian, set back from the street. There was a tall birch in the front yard, and a bench on the front porch. Reaching back to memories, before grandad got sick, she remembered them sitting on that bench on Sundays, reading.
She remembered it so hard that she could almost see it: both of them sitting there, smiling at her as she approached.
When she was very little grandma’s house had meant cookies, and malted milk, and being indulged in a way her parents would never do.
Now she was afraid of what was inside that door. She’d called grandma, once a month or so, the last six years. But it wasn’t the same. And now Mrs. Jones, who looked after grandma said that she was losing touch with the real world. That she might be gone any minute.
The truth was that Aimee had problems with death and ending. Not just death and ending of people but of everything. Cats, dogs, relationships.
She’d thought the world was safe and predictable until ten years ago, when mom and dad divorced. Then there had been her high school friends, until the group dispersed as if it had never been. Then—
Then college friends for a little while. And then work.
Until the last year. In the last year, it seemed to her half of her friends had got married and half had left for parts unknown. The last year had been hard, between moves and breakups, and– Well, Brad!
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