One

One year ago today, I moved.

One year ago today, something horrifying broke inside me and every pain I felt about leaving came rushing out.

One year ago today, I looked out the window on the big tree outside for the last time.

One year ago, I paced across those wide-board wooden floors and locked the door.

One year ago, the echo of my footsteps in the hallway was loud and hollow.

One year ago, I sat in my car at the stoplight at Fourth and Grace.

One year ago, I looked in my rearview at the yellow stucko and the red tin roof and the black curls of wrought iron.

One year ago, I drove away.

One year ago, I said goodbye.

One year ago, I crossed the bridge.

One year ago. And sometimes, I can't help myself from looking back.