On the second week of mourning, I convinced Gran to clean Mother’s stuff and air out the house. Gran didn’t say anything, but on Sunday when I drove over, she was wordlessly waiting with list of things we needed to throw out.

She said she would clear the shed. I could clean the house. There was not much to the house, and she didn’t need me to go nutcase on her over some stupid order of things.

The spare key to Mother’s house, which Gran usually put in the mailbox, was still there. I used it to enter.

The sound of the empty house hull welcomed me. I stood motionless at the threshold, hands clenching around the wiggling round lock, blinking at the cooled darkness unfurling slowly at my presence. A dizzy wave of deja vu slammed into me, like I was hit by a blunt object.

One. Inhale, exhale. Two. Inhale, exhale. Three. Inhale, exhale. Four. Inhale, exhale. Five. Inhale, exhale. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

You’ve got to move eventually. But my body was frozen, suddenly raved with the urge to run back into my car, lock myself in the little steel confinement and vomit, puking all the memories and regrets that were buried deep within these walls.

I was alone. Bare-handed against the known.

I swallowed down the irrational fear and forced myself to shut the door. I breathed in the familiar smell, feeling goosebumps raced down my nape.

The house smelled musty, dampened and reeked of pus and sweat, decaying flowers and soil and unwashed dishes. It smelled of old age, of abandonment, of loneliness.

Everywhere I looked, there was Mother. Her wheelchair folded against the corner. Photos of Mother when she was still a child, photos of Mother and Gran smiling and hugging, photos Gran and Gramps showing Mother like a prized golden medal. Her medicines were still on the counter, by a half-empty cup of water. Laundry folded and hung in the closet. Bedsheet unmade, rumples preserved.

I yanked the curtains aside and cracked the window, letting in a stream of cold air. A layer of dust already settled in and my fingers itched to start scrubbing every surface I could see. I peered down the forlorn street. There were some muffled clatter and bangs from the backyard.

I watched the way sunlight slanted through the trees and wondered how many times Mother had sit at this very window. Acidic guilt clawed at my chest.

What went on your head, Mother? What did you think? What did you feel?

What did I miss?

What could I have done?