Circling the roundabout to the corner of Poppy Terrace, Lisa started to imagine her home. It had been a very long week, fraught with emotion, heavy workloads, ignorant people and too many fast food lunches. She was grateful to be leaving the stark grey building with the windows overlooking the roofs of other stark grey or beige buildings, some with sudo gardens of trees and half baked flowers.

She was so excited when she could finally say to her parents that she owned her own home, it had taken a lot of sacrifices, and a lot of overtime and puffy eyes from lack of sleep. The fireplace was her favorite spot to sit after a long day, she would sit staring into the flickering flames, Merlot in hand and a throw over her knees. The rooms were painted in soothing blues, tepid creams and white mouldings. That had been one of the joys of putting it together with Jason. He was so sweet about allowing her to have the curtains instead of blinds in the living room…he never liked curtains.

The king sized bed was easy; they loved room to play and love each other. It wasn’t over furnished, she was adamant about not having every wall covered with art, every corner with something in it, every room without space to fold into when life got overwhelming. Having room to exhale and spaces for the mind to wander or just sit still was always important for her, and Jason understood that. She always got overwhelmed quickly and smiled slightly as she remembered their first date. He had asked the live band that was performing on the roof-top restaurant to stop by their table in the hopes of being romantic, but it had backfired. She hadn’t liked the attention it brought and the singing was a little too loud.

FIve years later they fell in love with the house the minute they saw it. Now she pulled into the driveway and tapped the ignition off. The silence was nice. Her left hand sat on the steering and her right hand lay limp in her lap. The tears creeped to the corners of her eyes and slipped down slowly. The house was beautiful, the landscaping was a labor of love by Jason, almost like his open arms waiting for her to arrive. She wished with all her heart that it could feel like home again. Home was Jason, not the throw rugs, the fireplace, the curtains or moldings. It was now house. Everything had changed the day Jason was hit while riding his bike to the park. Like a movie fading to a new scene, her home had shifted to a house, and here she sat remembering. She glanced to the left and noticed weeds springing up between the rocks he had proudly arranged around the flower beds, inhaled deeply and wiped at her tears.

Tomorrow she would get garden gloves and begin pulling them out.