Empty house

I sit on the staircase in the middle of the empty house. The light walks slowly around the corner, in a minute it will show up in the lounge, I know exactly when, the angle, the sudden appearance of bumps and spots on the wall, a child's blue crayon tempted by the big, white surface once. I still remember a crayon in my much smaller hand, the thrill. The fingers that are forced to let go, the angry voice of a mother. I made other mistakes, some of them I'll only know if my children show me. The house will tell no more. I suppose the new resident will repaint the walls.