The decrepitude of an inner world reflects throughout the room, in the dust covered dresser, in the half eaten pizzas, the crumpled cans, the pile of smelly clothes.The room reeks of loss and despair.
It is dark. Even the sun is reluctant to creep in into the darkness inside.
I avoid stepping on crumpled paper fist balls, scattered photos of me and decaying potato chips as snake my way towards the familiar bed.
I gently lay my hand on the curled up figure.
A stir. A jerk.
“You have come back.”
He must stink, but my nose picks up only the loved smells of musk and joy.
“For you. I shouldn’t have left.”
And I see the dam holding his tears releasing, breaking down.
“Have you really come back to me?”
We fall, melt into each others arms. And everything in this world falls into place. We both are home.
A knock cracks the frozen moment.
His mother peeps in.
“I brought you some lunch.”
She does not acknowledge me. She has never liked me much.
“Mom, she has come back to me.”
Relief, love and all things happy lace his words.
His mother says nothing. She looks at us, the sadness in her eyes slicing us. And she backs out, closing the door behind her.
I take him into my arms.
“She still thinks you are dead,” he says apologetically
And as I soak in the fused fragrance of musk and joy and home, I whisper into his ears.
“For you, not.”