She wheeled her suitcase through the sweltering hallway, avoiding empty boxes and other parents’ eyes. She lifted the suitcase easily down the stairs, empty except for unnecessary necessities: the top sheet from the sheet set, the lamp. Things he didn’t need, never asked for, like the long goodbye she’d imagined.
Melanie Winklosky is a fiction writer trapped in a grant writer’s body. She lives in Swampscott, Massachusetts with her husband and dog, in what those who don’t understand call her “empty nest,” cheering on her children as they chase their dreams.
I am struggling to understand what’s happening here. “…other parents” indicate the speaker is a parent, but if it’s move-in day, why is she going “down” the stairs? Is this a dormitory? Did her son go AWOL? What does the last line refer to?
I generally prefer to let a story speak for itself, but in this case I’ll note that I read it as the mother on her way out of the building after dropping off her son.
Ah! It clicks into place now.
So may parents exact experience precisely and succinctly captured! Love it!
Ok, I understand this completely, especially ‘things he didn’t need, never asked for, like the long goodbye she’d imagined.’. Gut-wrenching if one has experienced this.