Cara

Short Fiction

He lifted the last box into the back of his pickup, pulled the blue tarp over the load and tied it all down. He was done. The house was empty. The For Sale sign buried deep into the front lawn where the winds from the coming storm couldn’t rip it out.

He walked around the perimeter one last time, checking the doors and windows. The gate to the pool fence was padlocked. The pool was covered, though he had emptied it weeks before. And the tree house he had built years ago for his daughter was still there. Maybe the new owners would like it, or tear it down. He didn’t care.

Across the street, Mrs. Cullins saw him, hesitated, then slowly raised her hand and waved. He smiled. She hadn’t said hello, good-bye or anything in between for years. She wasn’t mean, just lonely he guessed. So used to being the only company to herself that others, well, they just weren’t there most of the time. He waved back, turned the corner and walked toward his truck.

On the walk, where it turned and headed towards the front door was a one foot-square piece of concrete with Cara’s handprints embedded in it. She had written her name and the date and then told her dad about it, after he had spent the better part of three days putting in the walk.

He was mad at first. He was always proud of his work; it spoke for him and who he was and he didn’t want anything getting in the way. He had looked down at her, hands on hips and did his best John Wayne imitation, but didn’t pull it off. She laughed at him. And he didn’t…