The home skeleton left nothing to be remorseful about. Faded stains of traffic along the carpet, trails that took us from room to room, where we once sat, ate, read, slept, laughed, loved, screamed, hated; now open, breathing light.

The dog sniffed the ground and looked up. I wonder what can she can know from smells.

Evidence of a lineage lay scattered; objects left behind: Grandfather’s stethoscope and book on spines, M0m’s book of prayers next to a broom and dustpan, Dad’s tripod and dresser made of yellow plastic bamboo.

I look out at the crusted snow, the fallen fence, the dusty tree, poetic reminders of a family who might love, but not well enough. Not right now, maybe later, maybe never.

I tell Bill I never want to come back here.

He tells me, never say never.