What Remains in the Water

The pool had gone green somewhere between the funeral and now. Emma stood at the edge, her reflection broken by algae thick as cream. Three weeks since her mother's death, and this was what remained of the legacy: a stagnant body of water behind a house too large for one person, too empty for memories to fill.

Buster—her mother's elderly golden retriever—nudged her hand with that persistence of animals who sense grief before humans acknowledge it. His muzzle had gone white this year, the same white that had appeared in her mother's hair during those final chemotherapy rounds. Emma scratched behind his ears, feeling the old dog's sigh travel through her fingers.

"You hungry, buddy?" she asked, though they both knew food wasn't what either of them needed.

Inside, the kitchen smelled of papaya—impossibly, given that her mother had stopped buying fresh fruit two years ago. But there it sat on the counter, a single specimen, freckled and ripe. A gift from a neighbor who'd meant well. Emma sliced it open, revealing salmon-colored flesh that smelled of summers she no longer had.

Her mother had loved papaya. Had eaten it every morning of the healthy years, standing at this same counter, watching Buster chase squirrels through the sliding glass doors. Those mornings felt like another lifetime now, like stories told about someone else's mother.

Emma carried a wedge outside, sitting on the pool's edge. Buster settled beside her, chin on her knee. They ate papaya together in the gathering dusk, juice staining their fingers, sweetness that felt almost like pain.

"I don't know if I can sell this place," she whispered to the dog. Buster thumped his tail against the concrete.

The realtor had called yesterday with another offer. A young couple. They'd love the pool, she'd said. Perfect for children. Emma had nodded through the phone, making noncommittal sounds, because how could she explain that the pool wasn't just water and concrete? How could she say that selling it meant letting go of the version of her mother who'd sat in this same spot, laughing as Buster shook chlorinated water all over her pristine chaise longue?

She stood up, wiping sticky hands on her jeans. The pool's green surface reflected the first stars.

"Okay," she said to the empty backyard. "Okay."

Tomorrow she'd call the pool company. Have them drain it, clean it, make it ready for strangers who would make new memories in water that had once held her mother's laughter. But tonight, she sat back down beside the old dog, and they watched the darkness fill the space where everything used to be.