The Final Box

Most of the house was empty. Tom Filmore was in a bright pink room putting stuffed animals in a box. There were mainly just boxes in the house. A box of maternity clothes. A box of newborn cloths, never worn. Toys, women’s clothing, a car seat, and various other items. There was one box marked personal. Tom put the last picture album in it. The walls were bare, with faded signs of where pictures once were. In the pink room there were marks in the floor from where a crib once was. Tom taped the last box shut. He walked out to the two car garage. Two tennis balls were hanging in the garage. Only his blue four door sedan occupied the space. He walked over and tapped the other tennis ball. He was waiting for someone to come by and pick up all the boxes. He put the single box marked “personal” in the back seat. He looked around for about five minutes. The house was cold and empty. He stared at a stain on the garage floor. It was near the second tennis ball. Just a small oil stain. Tom looked around one more time. He closed the door leading into the house. He got in his car and turned the key. He pushed the gas peddle a few times to hear the engine. He pushed the button to close the garage door. He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. A single tear rolled down his cheek.