What Remains in the Empty House

Margaret stood at the edge of the drained pool, its blue paint peeling like sunburned skin. Three months since David's funeral, and she was finally sorting through the house they'd shared for thirty-two years. The yard was overgrown, the garden David had tended so carefully now a tangle of weeds. Among them, spinach plants had gone to seed, their tall stalks bending in the autumn wind — stubborn, resilient, completely indifferent to absence.

She'd forgotten to eat again. That's what her daughter said, anyway. Margaret hadn't forgotten. She just hadn't bothered. But now, looking at those spinach plants towering over her tomatoes, something shifted. David grew spinach every spring. He'd make creamed spinach on Sunday mornings, the smell of it filling the kitchen, promising comfort. Some Sundays she'd joined him at the table. Other Sundays she'd claimed work, or a headache, or simply stared at the ceiling while he cooked alone below.

The cat — David's sister's cat, inherited because no one else would take it — wound around her ankles, meowing pointedly. David had hated this cat. Margaret had tolerated it. Now it was the only living thing that waited for her to come home.

"You're hungry," she said to the cat. "Everyone's hungry."

She climbed down into the empty pool, where David had sat in his lounge chair reading the newspaper, his bare feet on the concrete. He'd fallen here two years ago, hit his head, laughed it off. The first silent symptom of what would eventually stop his heart. She'd told him to see a doctor. He'd said, "In the summer. When the pool's open again."

The pool never opened again.

Margaret sat in his spot. The concrete was cold through her jeans. The cat watched from above, its eyes knowing and judgmental.

She stood up and walked to the garden. She harvested what spinach she could salvage, washing it at the outdoor spigot, the water shocking her hands. Inside, she found the heavy cream in the back of the refrigerator, surprised it hadn't expired. She cooked as David had cooked, following the recipe she'd watched him make hundreds of times without ever really learning.

When it was ready, she set the table for two, then removed one place setting. The cat jumped onto the empty chair, tail twitching.

"No," she said firmly. "Not today."

She ate alone. The spinach was rich and comforting and tasted nothing like memory. It tasted only of itself. When she finished, she did the dishes, left the cat on the porch, and drove to the pool store. They'd drain it properly next week. She'd fill it properly next spring. She'd swim in it, even though she'd never learned properly. David had offered to teach her, year after year. Next spring, she would offer herself.

The house was quiet when she returned. The cat waited by the door. Margaret let it in, then locked the door behind them both. Some things you keep. Some things you change. The trick was knowing the difference.