The cold air that rushed into the stifling summer heat could not distract from the garish white interior, stripped of its former gloriously unorganized usefulness. Too-large cases of off brand soda could not, try as they might, fill the emptiness.
My mother would disapprove of the steak in the wrong side of the meat/cheese drawer. She would disapprove of the sugary drinks and the excess bottles of milk. Yet there they were in her meticulously clean refrigerator- new habits, new tastes, new life nestled uncomfortably in one of the remaining standards of The House, or the dream it represented.
I closed the doors abruptly. Were it not for the water bottle clutched in my hand, I would have forgotten why I trekked out there in the first place.
The garage is a bit of a sanctuary now, in my mind. At its heart, sealed in a metal box, the juxtaposition of everything I lost and all that I'm learning to love (or live with).