Standing in the Doorway

Kevin stood in the doorway of his sons’ empty room. It was bare of all but the bones of the furniture - four bunks, a desk and chair, a lamp. The wall was still marked with pale spaces where Scott had hung his first guitar, where Bob and Clay tacked stacks of sheet music to make notes and squabble over harmonies.

Kevin closed his eyes and remembered his sons’ voices, little piping children’s voices as they leapt from bunk to bunk, pretending to shoot each other with water pistols in a game of cops and robbers. He’d stood in the doorway just like this when Scott came skittering out of the bathroom, whimpering because his voice squeaked whenever he spoke. He’d stood in the doorway just like this and heard rock’n’roll pour out of his sons instruments as they’d sat in a circle and laced harmonies over Scott’s first real guitar licks.

He’d stood in the doorway just like this and listened to them hiss at each other in their twin-speak as they packed their clothes and ignored him thoroughly.

He opened his eyes and he was still standing in the doorway, but their voices were gone.