The House

The sweet smell of summer salt, from the beach.
I would go there once a year, with only the most understanding of people.
The sunset crimson on the shutter blinds,
darkening the glittering rim where the sky met the sea, and the sea met the sand.
I wondered
what it would be like to be there alone,
without the laughter,
the cavernous warmth filling my stomach.
I was sure that I could still feel it there if I went on my own,
the way the bed still crawled with phantom hands,
the covers a burrow for the ghosts of those who slept alone,
who slept together,
who slept in a pile, a connection of friends taking refuge,
to stare up at the thunderstorm rain rolling off the skylights.

—By Sofia Catanzaro